


What's in a Name?

by matcha_tea



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Gender-Neutral Hawke, Memory Loss, Minor Fenris/Isabela, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matcha_tea/pseuds/matcha_tea
Summary: Fill for the DA kink meme: "Merrill has Fenris' REAL name tattooed on the inside of her wrist and this gives Fenris the idea that the Merrill whose name he has written above his right hipbone isn't the weird blood mage Hawke trudges around with. Basically, they never really considered the option that they might be each other's soulmates.Until Fenris finds out what his real name is."





	1. Prologue

The first word Merrill learns to read in the common tongue is etched into her wrist, black ink stark against the splash of blue vein and pale skin. Yet Keeper Marethari began her education in elvhen, deeming knowledge of her people more important than the strange letters that appeared during her first blood.

Merrill didn’t need to see the troubled look on her Keeper’s face when she caught sight of it that week—she had already been teased for being such a late bloomer—but she would eventually need to face the truth. A First could not serve their clan if they were literate in one language alone.

Gossip amongst the clan eventually filled in the gaps: the way a soulmate's name appeared spoke volumes about their true selves, or so people believed.

Soul marks among elves were meant to be inscribed in elvhen, proclaimed gifts from the goddess Mythal. Though the Keepers preserved their ancient lore and rituals, hahren knew the language best—they had to, in order to arrange marriages between the clans and across human cities.

In time, Marethari took her First aside and clasped her pupil’s hand between her own. In a low, level voice, she said what she could.

“Our people seldom mix with the outside world, Merrill, but there are times when we must. It is why we keep up with the common tongue, to barter and trade, or…”

The unintended comparison was an ugly one. A union between soulmates was cause for celebration among the Dalish, a rare but not unexpected event. Mythal looked after her people, after all.

To be told at fifteen that her mark raised its own obligations—whoever heard of a Dalish elf expressing themselves most truly in a language other than elvhen?

Merrill learns to hate the name _Leto._

\--

Fenris never put much stock in names. He remembers very little from his childhood; all his memories start around somewhere in his teens, weeks after the lyrium markings began to heal. It was a slow process.

Eventually, he accepted that he would know no other life, and he would need to make the most of this one. Named and owned by someone else, marked as a tool to be used. Whoever he was before he became property of Danarius of Minrathous had been lost forever.

Strangely, while the lyrium tattoos twisted over most of his body, Danarius had left a particular section of his hip alone. Neat, little letters that he was not taught to read.

”It's a name. Merrill,” Danarius said impatiently, after he once again caught Fenris bare-chested by a mirror, running the pads of his fingers over his right hip bone.

“I was surprised to find you with a soul mark, little wolf. Aren't you lucky?”

Danarius delighted in hiding truths from his slave, like a magpie hoarding shiny objects. Hadriana was even crueler, making oblique, cutting comments about the ‘imperfection’ on his skin.

He gathered enough about the mark over time to realize its purpose. There was someone out there waiting for him. Someone that loved him, someone that may even defy the odds to…

To what? This soulmate, with a silly-sounding, lighthearted name, belonged to the life he'd been forcibly torn from. Danarius was amused by the mark but Fenris knew his master would never let him actually seek this person out.

Their name didn't matter in this life, he told himself.

Until he came to Kirkwall and found a chance to start over.

\--

As she accumulates scars and becomes accustomed to the feel of a blade against her thumb, Merrill’s understanding of the world changes.

Her eventual status as a pariah does not surprise her. Marethari tried to hold them together, but there was little she could do with her bullheaded First. A mere three years pass between her soul mark manifesting and the clan’s arrival at Sundermount, and yet she views the world through a completely different lens.

Gone is the girl who traced the shape of each letter on her wrist with reverence and no small amount of wonder. Gone is the shy, studious First who believed nothing worse could come to her than her Keeper’s disapproval.

When Hawke comes, bearing Asha’bellanar’s amulet and a way out, Merill tries not to hope too fervently.

 _Step carefully,_ she’s told. _No path is darker than when your eyes are shut._

With Hawke it seems leaps of blind faith were practically a requirement, so she tucks the advice away along with the well-meaning criticisms of her clan and Keeper, her respect for the Witch of the Wilds notwithstanding.

The outside world begins to look like less of a divine punishment.

\--

Months pass as Hawke prepares to join the Tethras brothers’ expedition to the Deep Roads, and they learn the importance of _anticipating team dynamics._

Varric and Bethany got along with just about everyone, in their own ways. Aveline and Isabela would forever snipe at one another. Merrill and Anders often disagreed on magic theory, but they seemed to enjoy their debates. Fenris was a goddamn wild card.

And yet, Hawke remembers the early days fondly, when things went off-script more often than they worked out.

They once bought Fenris, Merrill, and Aveline to fetch something for some noble, an easy cash grab in preparation for the expedition to the Deep Roads. Despite Fenris’ obvious disdain for mages, he was quiet for most of the journey.

Save for one question.

“Is Merrill a popular name amongst the Dalish?” Fenris muttered the question at first, with none of his usual derision, as though he hadn't meant to speak out loud. Hawke turned when Merrill asked him to repeat it.

Both elves looked a bit startled, but she answered, “I'm not sure, Fenris. Every clan has their own traditions and favored namesakes. We tend to stick to the pantheon, so I'm sure there are others out there, though I suppose the city elves do it differently… have you met another Merrill?”

“Nevermind, witch,” he replied curtly.

Before Hawke could throw in their two cents, they noticed movement behind the party.

“SPIDERS!” they screeched, and the moment was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized I was sitting on an update for the original fic (which can still be found [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15999.html?thread=61416831#t61416831)) for a few months, stumped, and I recently replayed DA2 and realized I got a bunch of stuff... wrong... Additionally, I wasn't sure where I wanted Merrill and Fenris to go after the 'big reveal.' They're very different characters to me now, compared to when I first started trying to write this ages ago. I have updates and a majority of this fic planned out, this time! And I'm excited to see what readers think of these changes.
> 
> This goes out to Nightheart, who may or may not still be patiently waiting for that update. Here it is!


	2. Chapter 2

The Dalish seldom made contact outside the clans, and foreign friends were rare. Though her life had changed greatly, Merrill was still surprised to find a Rivaini pirate becoming one of her most trusted companions. Isabela, too, reacted curiously sometimes, as though she couldn’t believe she had friends to call on.

Hawke ended up bringing Bethany and Anders on the expedition, but Merrill was almost glad for it. Waiting for news became easier when she could help Isabela track down rumors of her relic, and the two of them passed long afternoons in the tavern.

The conversation happens unceremoniously, after Isabela gives up on teaching Merrill the rules of Wicked Grace for the third time.

“You have a tattoo, Isabela?” Merrill asked, eyeing the back of the rogue’s neck.

“Oh, a few, Kitten. But this one’s different.” Isabela set aside her deck of cards.

“Some of your people have them too, don’t they?” Pinning her hair back with one hand, Isabela gestured to the script just under her ear with the other. “Soul marks.”

Merrill froze at the sight of the faded letters, so different from the black stain on her wrist. She folded her hands together and cleared her throat.

“They’re rare among us. Though the hahren take them into consideration when they arrange marriages between clans or cities.”

“You have _arranged marriages?_ ”

Leaping at the chance to complain about one of her least favorite elven customs, Merrill held back a sigh of relief.

In time, she’d probably tell Isabela about her strange mark. But the wound was too raw, too tangled up in all the things that led to her exile from the Sabrae clan, and so she pushed the conversation along.

\--

“So, the seneschal’s tax collectors won’t be coming around again, like you asked,” Isabela said around a swig of wine. “Funny story.”

Fenris smirked, raising his own bottle as if to toast her.

“I’ll pass, but thank you for the help.”

“Spoilsport. Why you want to squat up here in Hightown is beyond me.”

He remembered what he told Hawke when he first took over the mansion. _I could stay, for the right reasons._

Much had happened since that talk. Hawke enjoyed the company of more unhinged mages than he liked, yet Fenris was beginning to welcome chances to venture out with their motley crew. He’d gotten used to the rogue showing up at strange hours with a job, a tip, or even just a simple request for company.

Varric claimed he could spot a competent Wicked Grace player from miles away; once they all put the expedition firmly behind them, he and Fenris started a weekly tradition of arguing with each other over cards. And Isabela certainly wasn’t shy about bothering him, probing the grounds for security risks and attempting to steal bottles of wine when she thought she could catch him off guard. Even Aveline, in her brusque way, directed patrols away from the area in order to prolong his stay.

As for Anders, or Merrill? With the former, he knew what to expect; the mage was rather predictable, both on and off the battlefield. Despite their mutual disdain for the other, Anders never hesitated to treat his wounds or throw up a barrier when needed.

He tried not to think too long about the latter, only because the fool blood mage’s name sounded the same as the one Danarius tossed at him all those years ago. For all her babbling about history and Dalish customs, though, she’d never touched the issue of soul mates. They worked well when they were with Hawke, and Merrill never sought him out otherwise. Fenris figured that was enough to put the issue to rest.

After three years on the run and a handful more in Kirkwall, he was beginning to recognize what trust looked like from Hawke and associates, and what it might meant to trust them in return. It was a humbling thought.

Despite loose ends in need of tying, and a myriad of questions in need of answers, Fenris realized he was already putting down roots. Regardless of reason, he wanted to stay.

He realized abruptly that he hadn’t given Isabela a response.

“I like the view,” he told her instead, deadpan.

Chuckling, Isabela stood. She gave him an exaggerated once-over before she finished off her wine and declared, “So do I.”

Hawke appeared in the doorframe as if on cue, wearing one of their sillier grins. “Am I interrupting?” they asked cheerfully.

Isabela gave them both a wink as she sauntered out, and started to whistle on her way down the stairs.

“Three years,” Fenris mused, as Hawke took Isabela’s seat. “There’s still no sign of Danarius. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s finally given up.”

“This is his mansion, isn’t it? He must know you’re here.”

“Would you be surprised to learn it that isn’t, in fact, his mansion? It belongs to a Tevinter merchant, one who has evidently given up on the place. Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps Danarius killed him. Either way, if Danarius is aware of my presence, he has done nothing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to miss all the attention. I could always provide a substitute.” Fenris just smirked.

Hawke and Isabela were, scarily, quite similar in their approach to conversation. They saw potential landmines and side-stepped them with graceless humor. Their approach to flirting was equally terrible, even though Isabela clearly did it more often.

Sometimes he wondered if they were being obvious on purpose. They knew he wasn’t comfortable with affection in most forms, but he was beginning to get used to their over-the-top displays. The ground would open up and swallow him before he admitted he found it… endearing.

“Tell me, what do you do when you stop running?”

“You start over.” Their answer was immediate, though their follow up question was less so. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“I don’t know how.” Fenris pushed aside a few empty bottles. “My first memory is receiving these markings, the lyrium being branded into my flesh. The agony wiped away everything. Whatever life I had before I became a slave… it’s lost.” He stood.

“You don’t know who you were?” Hawke had a pensive look on their face. Fenris was only grateful that they never tried to pity him.

 _"Fenris_ was the name Danarius bestowed upon me. His ‘little wolf.’ If I once had another name, or a family, then they were taken from me.” He trailed off. “I shouldn’t trouble you with this.”

At that, Hawke smiled. “Your problems are my problems.”

“Unlucky you.” Fenris gestured to one of the unopened bottles, an invitation. If he was going to commit to living a new life, he might as well toast to the start. And with Hawke and Isabela involved, they probably wouldn’t mind helping him in the art of flirting back.

Hawke tried to pull a knife out of their boot; rolling his eyes, Fenris grabbed the nearest corkscrew.


	3. Chapter 3

Merrill knew her curiosity would get the better of her after catching a glimpse of inked script at the edge of Varric’s shirt collar.

Choice of chest-baring apparel aside, Varric was an expert at keeping secrets. She was just shocked to discover the dwarf’s soul mark before he discovered hers.

So, of course, she had to open her big mouth.

“You have a soul mate!”

Varric’s eyebrows climbed high over his forehead, but he was quick to respond.

“Sure do, Daisy. I’m surprised. Why the sudden interest?”

He watched as a flush spread from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She hadn’t expected him to be so forthcoming.

After a beat, he smiled wide.

“This is personal for you, huh?”

She muttered an oath under her breath. It had been over four years since she started counting herself among Hawke’s associates; none of them were as observant as Varric. Yet she’d kept her mark hidden after all this time.

Perhaps it was time to come clean.

“Yes,” she said eventually, stretching out the vowel in her reluctance.

The dwarf just smiled at her, and she tried to muster up some bravery.

“You don’t exactly hide it, do you?” she babbled. “But you’ve never talked about it. Oh, I suppose that’s hypocritical of me…” She pursed her lips before she said too much.

Varric decided to rescue her before she burned up in embarrassment.

“I don’t blame you, Daisy, soul marks are tricky business. They’re not exactly common for dwarves. I guess if you have the ‘stone sense,’” he put the term in air quotes, “You don’t need some omnipotent matchmaker telling you what to do.”

Merrill giggled, though she was relieved in a way. Varric knew just what to say in practically every situation, and it was… nice to have an ally in this.

That was what made her remove her left gauntlet and bare the hastily scrawled letters to him.

“Elves usually have their names written in the old language,” she explained in a rush. “So having a mark in common… it’s not exactly common either.”

“Leto,” Varric muttered, squinting at the letters. He reached out and grasped Merrill’s hand, an uncharacteristically serious look passing over his features.

“Listen, Daisy,” he said, and Merrill gripped his hand in return.

“Don’t let anyone else tell you what to do or what to think about that mark. For better or for worse, there’s someone out there whose life is tied to yours. You might figure it out tomorrow, or you might run into each other when you’re old and grey. The whole… matchmaker from up there thing,” he flapped his free hand dismissively, “Nobody should live their life like they’re afraid to get it wrong.”

She grinned at him.

\--

Yet she watched as Varric broadcasted his name to the world, penned a wildly popular murder mystery series, and grew inspired by Aveline’s blossoming relationship with Guardsman Donnic.

Merrill thought the latter, at least, was terribly sweet. After a heated argument with Isabela (who, to her credit, had been trying to help Aveline with her romantic endeavors) one night in the Hanged Man, Merrill discovered the redhead lacked a soul mark.

She was a bit envious of the woman. She’d found a second chance after everything she’d been through, surviving the chaos of the Fifth Blight, overcoming the loss of her husband, making a place for herself in a faraway city that hadn’t exactly welcomed refugees.

Aveline, she thought, was an even more romantic figure than Donnen Brennokovic or the Guard Captain from his newest serial, _Swords and Shields._

She said as much to Varric the day he published the first book.

She was lounging around his room in the Hanged Man, picking at the luxuriously patterned comforter on his bed, and she couldn’t help but list the things she admired about their companion. Her bravery, her dedication, her loyalty; and most importantly, the freedom she had to choose.

The dwarf thought about it for a beat before exclaiming, “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Shit, Daisy, you should tell it like that when they say their vows. Aveline would appreciate that. She probably wouldn’t even threaten to have you drawn and quartered for making shit up.” He chuckled.

Merrill laughed along, but said, “I don’t think the Chantry would let someone like me preside over the ceremony.” He sobered up and touched her shoulder with one of his big, calloused hands.

“No, don’t suppose they’d was either of us to be there. Guess we’ll just have to save it for a reception at the Hanged Man, eh?”

She liked how Varric learned to stop coddling her, but never lost his gentle ways. Still, Varric’s insistence on international fame was a mystery to her.

He hadn’t said a word about the identity of his own soul mate, and she hadn’t wanted to push at the time, but it seemed like he wanted that person to know he existed. That he could write, and that he could deliver these outrageous and well-loved tales.

According to his publisher, a surly woman from the Coterie, he had quite the dedicated following among Chantry initiates. She wondered what the point of it all was.

“Varric?” she asked after a moment. “If you met your soulmate… would you consider marrying them?”

It took a weight off her shoulders, knowing she could come to him with these kinds of questions. Yet Varric looked shocked, as if it was the last question he expected to come out of her mouth.

“I don’t know, Daisy,” he said, putting on an air of forced indifference. “Can’t say I’ve thought about it.”

“You have,” Merrill guessed. Not quite an accusation, but close. No one could write so exuberantly about intimacy and pretend they didn’t want something like it for themselves.

He frowned, and she recognized it was an unfair exchange.

Varric claimed to be an incredibly open person, easy to get to know, but half the stories he shared had to be lies, or gross exaggerations at the very least. Vulnerability was difficult for him. Merrill liked to think she understood.

“Before my mark appeared,” she began, “I grew up hearing many wonderful stories about soul marks. The Dalish consider them a gift from Mythal, Protector and All-Mother.”

Inadvertently, she’d started to channel Hahren Paivel. Varric pulled up a chair as she folded her legs beneath her.

“My parents’ clan had not seen a pair of soulmates for several generations,” she remembered.

“That’s partly why the Dalish try to keep contact between tribes. We assume that when one of us is born with a mark, that person is destined to another of our kind.”

_Whoever heard of a Dalish elf expressing themselves most truly in a language other than elvhen?_

“Even if they must travel hundreds of miles to meet, anyone with a soul mark will tell you they’re willing to go to the ends of the earth to find their soulmate.” Merrill sighed.

“Those that don’t receive marks - well, they all seem to find,” _love,_ “happiness regardless. Mythal’s blessings come in many forms.”

She couldn’t bear to see the look on Varric’s face, lest she see something like pity. She pressed on.

“Anyway, my magic manifested before the mark did. I was… oh, in my sixth summer? I was sent to the Sabrae clan, to become Keeper Marethari’s apprentice. A few years later, one of Sabrae’s hunters joined a clan in Orlais, to be with his soulmate. We celebrated for a whole _week._ Feasts and dancing and… they sent a boy to take his place.” Mahariel.

Varric got that look in his eye, the one that usually preceded a wild (and scandalous) conclusion. Merrill rolled her eyes.

“ _Mahariel_ was kind. He died before we came to Kirkwall. I knew he had a soulmate, but he never told our Keeper. I think… I think he thought it was wrong, to put himself on display, to force a meeting between him and whoever Mythal thought he was destined for. So I…”

There was so much she didn’t understand, so much left unsaid, and she realized uncertainty had begun to crawl back into her voice.

Would she do the same thing? Would this person, Leto, never know where she ended up, never know whether she was alive or dead?

She closed her eyes.

“I agreed with him in many things, but I’m not entirely sure what _I’m_ supposed to do. That’s why I’m asking. I’ve seen what fortune these marks can bring, and I’ve seen loss.” So much loss.

“But the person I’m… connected to. Meant for. What if they aren’t…”

Merrill trailed off, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. The thought struck her quite suddenly. Did her fear really stem from the idea that her soulmate might not be elvhen?

“What if they reject me?” she asked instead. “Everything I’ve grown up with, everything I believe in… I’m Dalish, and I can’t be anything else.”

She blinked at the sudden fervor she felt, the way she’d leaned toward Varric, hoping he’d understand.

Marriage now seemed an inappropriate angle to approach whatever topic they landed upon. She drew back, felt her face heat. She was terrible with words.

“I might not be the dwarfiest dwarf around,” said Varric, “But I get that, Daisy, I really do.” His smile was tentative but genuine.

“If there’s anyone who can sympathize, it’s me. I already told you that we rarely have to deal with soul marks. If we get one, it should be dwarven business. But sometimes it’s not.”

One reached out to the other and Merrill smiled at him, her hand on his arm, his fingers curled around the edge of her gauntlet.

“I’m sorry I can’t say more,” he admitted ruefully. “My soulmate… well, she’s one of many stories I’m not ready to share. Someday, though. When I figure more of this shit out. For now, I’m content to let sleeping dragons lie.”

Merrill blinked, fairly sure the shem saying had something to do with a dog. Instead of pursuing it, however, she asked him to tell her more about _Swords and Shields,_ allowing the regular din from the tavern soothe over the memories their talk drudged up.


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris learns he has a sister in Qarinus.

Satisfying as it was to see the light fade from Hadriana’s eyes, he knew he had no way to verify her little story.

Furious, he’d wanted to storm off as soon as he wiped her blood from his gauntlet. “All that matters is that I finally got to crush this bitch’s heart,” he said. “May she rot, and all other mages with her.”

He’d ruffled Hawke’s feathers, he could see they wanted to argue with him. “You know they aren’t all like the magisters,” they said, voice raised.

Hawke had been so ready to defend those cursed with magic—their sister, Anders, even Merrill. They may have even come to blows, had Varric and Aveline not been there to hold them both back.

They pushed when they shouldn’t have. Hawke couldn’t sympathize with him in one breath and ignore the horrors of what they’d seen in the next.

On some level, they knew that. Fenris shouldn’t have been surprised to see Hawke at his door some days later. It had been enough time for them to cool their heads, and Fenris was just about to head over to the Amell estate. Still, he had to close his mouth at the sight of Hawke looking so abashed.

“I was in the wrong, and I’m sorry,” Hawke said, as soon as he let them in.

“And I took out my anger on you, undeservedly so,” Fenris admitted. They shared relieved looks. “I’m sorry too,” he said.

“You and I don’t always see eye to eye, but I shouldn’t have gotten so off track.” Hawke sighed as they made their way up the stairs. “Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Anders,” they suggested jokingly.

“Any time is too much,” he fired back with a smirk. “But I understand. You come from a family of mages, despite not being one yourself. They’re your people. Whereas I... find it difficult to see the people behind the magic.”

Hawke took their usual seat, but Fenris felt restless, and began to pace the room. “When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment. She would ridicule me, deny my meals, hound my sleep.”

_What an ugly name your soulmate has. She must be a terror, little wolf._

_You’ve been waiting so patiently for your one true love, Fenris, I’m sure you can skip dinner to assist me with a little something?_

_Get on your knees, slave, your work is not yet done._

Hawke looked furious, but at least it was on his behalf.

“Because of her status, I was powerless to respond, and she knew it. The thought of her slipping out of my grasp… I couldn’t let her go. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

“You broke your promise so easily,” Hawke observed. “Maybe that’s part of it. You thought by confronting her you could put this all to rest, but she baited you with a piece from a puzzle you didn’t know was missing.”

“A neat metaphor,” Fenris quipped. “It’s not easy to discover your principles are less noble than you believed.”

“I try not to do anything on principle,” Hawke said. It was one of their weaker jokes. Fenris didn’t know how they did it. How Hawke made such drastic decisions every day, how they lived with their actions when they so clearly influenced everything and everyone around them...

Was that what it meant to be free? To finally see one’s impact on the world?

“A toast, then,” Fenris said, grabbing a bottle. “To trying not to give a shit, and utterly failing.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

\--

Before Hawke stumbled back home, somewhere between tipsy and pleasantly drunk, they pulled out a book and dropped it on the table.

“Before I forget, I have something for you,” they said.

“It’s… a book.” Fenris scowled at them.

“I see your eyesight is still working fine,” Hawke smirked. “It’s by Shartan, the one who led the slaves that joined Andraste when she rebelled against the Imperium.”

“I know of him.” They could see his interest piqued. “It’s just…” Fenris sighed. “Slaves are not permitted to read. I never learned.”

Hawke took their hand off the cover and looked thoughtfully at him.

“How did you hear stories of him, then? The Chantry removed the Canticle of Shartan after the Exalted March on the Dales, but that doesn’t mean he stopped being an important figure in the Andrastian canon.”

“I’m too drunk for scholarship,” Fenris grumbled.

But he could appreciate the question. No one had ever thought to ask a slave about the ways they communicated, the stories they held onto.

“There was a tradition among us.” A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “When the elves traveled away from the Imperium after Andraste’s death, they decided to invent a number of absurd tales about his exploits, knowing all the human scholars would get his story wrong. Some of those tales survive today, even after the fall of the Dales.”

“Oh?” Hawke looked positively thrilled for someone who never blasphemed using Andraste’s body parts and knew the Canticle of Trials by heart. “Do go on.”

After the first few, Hawke was red-faced and trying not to choke.

“Maker! Merrill would hate these.”

“Mm, the way she goes on about elven heritage...”

Fenris tried not to bristle at their mention of the witch, taking refuge instead in the idea that she might combust at the ones that focused on Shartan’s… assets.

“You know, Fenris, I would be happy to help you teach you to read,” Hawke said, once they had calmed down.

“I apologize if this was insensitive of me. But I do think that being able to read and write is valuable knowledge, and knowledge is power.” Fair enough, Fenris thought with a nod.

“I’m sure Merrill would be happy to help you, too,” Hawke continued. “Provided you don’t mention Shartan’s legendary sexual exploits.” They dissolved into giggles.

“I do appreciate the thought,” Fenris said eventually. “But I wouldn’t trust the witch to teach me anything in a million years, Hawke. We could… start with something easier, perhaps?”

Hawke’s grin practically lit up the room.

\--

Merrill stared down at the arulin’holm in her hands. After everything they had gone through to retrieve the thing, she was beginning to wonder if she had gone too far.

And yet, every time she felt an inkling of doubt, she felt some other part of her quickly squash the notion, as if it were foolish for her to even think she could be wrong about this.

She was unsettled by her own mind and stewing in her regrets for the better part of the afternoon, which only served to fuel an increasingly foul mood. When Hawke entered her home, she almost didn’t notice them.

Hawke cleared their throat, and she nearly dropped the tool.

“Oh! Hawke! Come in. I was just…” Merrill grimaced.

“I thought the arulin’holm would fix everything. The mirror would work, and everything would be right again…”

Hawke sat by her and reached across the table to touch her shoulder. She smiled gratefully at them. “But I keep seeing Pol’s face in my dreams. He and Fenris call me a monster, over and over again.”

She took a shuddering breath. “I knew the risks when I took that shard from the Brecilian Forest. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when I turned to the spirits for aid. But everyone seems to forget that I’ve trained my entire life to be a Keeper. I’m not a fresh-faced apprentice casting their first fire spell!”

“For the record, I’m sorry I brought Fenris along,” Hawke said lightly. At least Isabela had been there to cut him off before he went too far.

Still, on their way back to Kirkwall, Fenris had spoken up, his voice tinged with ire. _You can't even begin to imagine the number of mages that have walked down the path you're now on,_ he’d said.

 _My clan didn’t believe in me,_ she’d shot back. _If you don’t believe in me either, I won’t mind._

“It’s not about him, not really. His experiences have shaped his understanding of my work. Anders, too, thinks he knows more than I do, but he’d rather resort to quoting Chantry doctrine than analyze his own relationship to a spirit.” Merrill set the arulin’holm on a table before throwing up her hands in exasperation.

“I always said I was never good with people and that was what would make me a terrible Keeper. But I understand those two, much as they get on my nerves. I’d like to think I understand you.” She turned to Hawke. “Am I crazy?”

“No more than I am,” Hawke said, as sincerely as they could.

“But,” Merrill’s eyes narrowed as they continued. “I am worried about you, Merrill.”

“You and the Keeper may not like it, but I chose this path with my eyes open,” she snapped, already worked up. “No one is at risk but myself. I have taken every possible precaution.”

“I trust you,” Hawke said. “It’s why I gave you the arulin’holm right away.” They held up their hand peaceably.

“At this point I’m less afraid for the people of Kirkwall and more worried about what this project is doing to you.”

They leaned toward her. “It’s becoming an obsession, Merrill. When you’re away from it, doing things with me or anything else, can you say the mirror’s not the first thing on your mind?”

Merrill opened her mouth to object, then shut it slowly.

“It’s not your job to save me,” she countered, but with less venom than she would have used before.

“I know.” The look on their face was a bit sheepish, but still determined. “I’m sure you’ve had enough lectures for a lifetime. I just think there are other ways to preserve your history and culture without giving up your family, or your friends, or putting yourself at risk for possession or whatever. I want to support your efforts to restore the mirror. I just. I’m going to keep questioning you, and I hope you’re okay with that.”

Merrill didn’t say the first thing on her mind, which would have been extremely uncomplimentary. Instead, she tried to see where Hawke was coming from.

Maybe they didn’t always agree with their friends, but they had always supported Fenris when he lashed out at the world, or Anders when he went on about the horrors of the Templar Order, or Aveline when she suspected a member of her guard was less than honest, or Isabela when she found a new lead on her relic, or Varric when he’d bullshitted his way into a corner.

“I think I can handle that,” she said.


	5. Chapter 5

Leandra is dead.

Isabela is the only one brave enough to approach Hawke’s room once they return. The bed curtains are drawn, but she can hear them punching something. Their pillow, she hopes.

“I… uh, I feel I should say... something,” Isabela said, standing by their bed like a right fool. She crossed her arms, self-conscious.

A long pause followed. At least Hawke stopped… whatever it was they were doing in there.

Isabela waited patiently. After a few minutes, Hawke drew back the curtains and shuffled to the edge of the bed, eyes red and puffy, a wry smile tugging at the corner of their mouth.

“I know you’re not good at,” they glanced at her, “emotional stuff.”

She took a few steps forward and leaned against a bedpost, watching as Hawke clasped their hands together and stared blankly at the floor.

“At least your mother loved you,” she said gently. “Not everyone can say that.”

Hawke understood now that Isabela phrased things in order to avoid discussing her own past, her own feelings.

“What was your mother like?” they asked anyway.

They looked up again just in time to catch the grimace that crossed her features, but Isabela responded, “My mother sold me for a goat and a handful of gold coins. She didn’t even haggle over the price, the bitch.” Her tone was flippant, but Hawke could tell it took a lot of effort to divulge something even slightly true.

She sighed, speaking up before Hawke could think of something to say.

“I’m joking, of course. I wasn’t worth a copper. I fought bitterly with my mother when she converted to the Qun. When she realized I wouldn’t be part of that life, she decided to cut me out completely. She gave me away to the man that would become my first husband.”

“Isabela,” they said, shocked.

When the pirate looked down again, however, she only saw sympathy.

They believed her, just like that. No matter how many fantastical tales she spun during their free evenings, Hawke always took her seriously. She couldn’t help but like that about them.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to drag up old history without reason,” Isabela said. “I’ve learned quite a bit about family since then.”

She sat down gingerly, smiling when Hawke shifted closer. “Family’s not just the people you’re related to by blood. There are other people that care about you.”

After a beat, she reached out with a hand to rub Hawke’s back. It felt like a proper moment, until she looked to the side and coughed, “Like Aveline.”

Hawke just leaned into her until their head rested on her shoulder, and they could feel the small, surprised breath that followed, the way Isabela’s hand abruptly stilled.

After a moment, Isabela stood, with just one lingering touch to Hawke’s hand.

“I— _we’ll_ be downstairs, when you need us. All of us. We aren’t going anywhere.”

\--

True to her word, Isabela convinced everyone to stay for a few days. Hawke ran into Anders the following morning, working on his manuscript in the usual spot, despite the fact he was usually at the clinic during the day.

“Anders,” they called out, surprised to see the man at work so soon after their encounter with the crazed necromancer.

“There’s tea downstairs, and Orana said something about cooking up a proper Fereldan meal,” Anders said. At least he had the grace to look a bit sheepish.

“But she’s Tevinter,” Hawke said, rather inanely. Anders only smiled at them.  
  
“Go on and see. I’ll join you in a minute.”

If Hawke had been thrown off by Anders, they were even more bewildered to see Aveline brewing tea, while Isabela bothered Orana with findings from their spice cabinet.

Varric was discussing something with Bodhan by the fire, Fenris was giving the mabari a belly rub, and Merrill was pulling out a novel from the Amell library. Hawke sniffed, suddenly thrown by how at home they all looked.

“Right,” they said loudly. Everyone turned to look at them. Their cheeks flushed, Hawke announced, “I could use some wine with my breakfast, I don’t know about you lot.”

“Ooh, but we were trying to make you eat properly, first,” Merrill exclaimed, dismayed. Laughter and an assortment of clashing opinions followed.

Hawke started to cry. Everyone ended up following them to the cellar.

\--

Breakfast turned into passing wine bottles around the living room.

Varric sat in one of the recliners; Merrill perched on its arm; Anders sprawled out on the floor, idly twirling a pen in one hand; Fenris was propped up by the fireplace with a book; Isabela and Aveline, by some miracle, were sitting together peacefully on the couch; Hawke had their head in Aveline’s lap and their feet in Isabela’s.

“My mother and father were soulmates,” Hawke said, seemingly out of the blue.  They gave a bottle to Aveline, who took a longer than usual swig from it.

“I suppose that’s why they had such a fairytale romance,” they continued. “Love at first sight, my mom used to say. They met at a ball for some duchess or other, and _Gamlen_ actually helped them meet in private. Grumpy, bitter Uncle Gamlen actually managed to be a decent wingman.”

Smiles went round the room. Hawke was clearly tipsy, if not outright drunk. But they were getting animated about it, hands moving expressively they way they usually did when Hawke really wanted to sell a story.

They only sobered up for one detail, but it clearly weighed heavily on them.

“None of their children got soul marks, though. Not me, Bethany, or Carver,” they said. If they hesitated at mentioning their brother, no one said a word. Hawke was quick to jump back into their tale, however.

By the time the wine bottle made another round, Hawke was sitting up and describing Malcolm’s proposal to Leandra, their daring escape to Fereldan.

Merrill had to get up to fetch the bottle from Fenris, who’d long since abandoned his reading lesson and seemed intent on finishing the wine.

“Varric and I will take that,” she said in her sweetest tone. Fenris rewarded her with a scowl, which only made her smile grow. The other elf was terribly predictable like that.

“I’m sure you had enough,” he said.

“And why is that?”

“You’re flushed. And clearly too young to be drinking so much.” Fenris had an odd expression on his face.

Merrill blinked, feeling her cheeks with her hands. Now that he mentioned it, she was a bit warm.

“Poking fun at my age now, Fenris?” she asked lightly.

“And here I thought you’d say something about how dangerous _mages_ are when they get drunk. Anders,” she leaned over her fellow mage, “He’s finally branching out, can you believe it?”

Anders started giggling, and Merrill went ahead and plucked the wine bottle from Fenris’ grasp. “I’ll have you know I’ll be twenty-two at the end of the summer, thank you kindly.”

“Can’t the three of you play nice for once?” Hawke called. The rogue was trying not to smile.

Merrill put a bit of Isabela-style swagger into her walk as she made her way back to Varric and presented the bottle to him with a flourish.

Varric smirked. “You know the saying, ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same?’ That’s us, Hawke. You were saying?”

Hawke continued to sketch out their parents’ story, remembering the shape of Malcolm’s name on Leandra’s shoulder the best they could. They had a wistful look in their eye.

Their ideas about soulmates were so different from Merrill’s. Listening to Hawke, though, she could almost believe in the appeal of star crossed lovers.

Merrill was so caught up in her own thoughts that she almost missed the look Fenris was giving her, long after their little exchange. But when their eyes met, Fenris made a show of pulling up his book, rearranging his legs.

Merrill wasn’t sure what to make of the moment, but she found herself thinking about it long after the conversation dwindled and they all went off to bed.

\--

In theory, staying at the Amell estate was a good way to support Hawke after their loss. In practice, however, Merrill was ill at ease in beds built for shemlen nobles, and she soon prowled the halls, restless.

At least she didn’t have to bother anyone to light candles for her. Elves were good at making their way through the dark.

Although, perhaps she was more preoccupied than she thought. As she rounded the corner to enter the kitchen, she couldn’t help but shriek a little at the sight of two glowing eyes finding hers.

“ _Fasta vass,_ keep your voice down,” the figure snapped at her.

“Fenris,” she exclaimed, before clapping her hands over her mouth. “Creators, you scared me.”

“Avert your eyes, witch,” he mumbled. He almost sounded embarrassed. Merrill turned to look at the empty fireplace, but snuck surreptitious glances as the other elf began to pull out bits from the pantry.

It occurred to her that she'd never seen Fenris eat, not even during their evenings at the Hanged Man; she almost assumed he subsisted on alcohol alone.

She heard Fenris sigh and realized with a jolt that she hadn't moved or said a thing.

"I was going to make tea," she blurted out. "I gave this herbal mix to Hawke a while ago when they came back from the... erm," she closed her mouth as Fenris frowned at her.

“It helps with sleeplessness. I could make you a cup, if you like. It’s just dried embrium and chamomile.” She rattled off a few other ingredients least he accuse her of trying to poison him.

In the dark, Fenris’ eyes were wide, and the soft glow from his reflective lenses made him look younger, oddly vulnerable.

“Alright,” he said. Merrill let loose a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, and searched a nearby set of cabinets.

After snapping a few times to get a decent fire started, Merrill nearly dropped the herbal mix when she saw Fenris laying out a spread of cheeses and pulling out two chairs. Was it her fault that the carving knife in his hand made her nervous?

Hawke once joked after they moved to Hightown that they intended to start a collection of unusually-named cheeses to confuse any visiting nobles. Varric and Isabela delighted at helping them pick dirty-sounding Orlesian ones.

Merrill leaned against the fireplace, watching as he sawed off a piece of crusty bread and picked one of the cheeses at random.

“Are you meaning to take a cup to Hawke?”

She could tell Fenris was actually making an effort to sound civil toward her. Merrill blinked.

“Anders is with them now. I think they’ll be fine.”

She wondered if he could tell she was smiling behind her hand, as he looked distinctly displeased.

The water began to boil as she added, “I’m glad we’re all staying here, but I find it difficult to sleep in a place that’s not my own. It took me months to get used to the alienage. The clay walls blocks out most of the noise. When you’re used to sleeping under the stars, silence is never a good thing.”

She wondered if he would say something disparaging about her, or the Dalish, but Fenris looked contemplative, instead. She busied herself with preparing the tea.

“Hawke asked me what I intended to do with the mansion, recently,” Fenris said as she made her way toward him with two cups. “Told me to get rid of the bodies.” He smirked.

“But... I think they were trying to ask if I’d be willing to move out. They even asked Varric if he wanted to stop renting at the Hanged Man.”

Merrill smiled unintentionally. Varric belonged at the tavern, not a Hightown mansion. And Fenris? Well, Merill imagined he’d chafe at sharing space with others, no matter how much he respected Hawke. Plus, he seemed to dislike the Feddic boy.

 _Unnerving,_ he’d muttered, when the boy answered the door to let them in.

As if he could read her thoughts, Fenris continued, “With all that’s happened lately, I’ve considered asking Hawke if they’re the one that wants to leave the estate. It seemed… too soon, though.”

Merrill watched as he took a careless sip of tea, not even bothering to check whether she’d done some blood magic first. Well, she had prepared it for him in full view, but this momentary peace was, frankly, surreal.

Chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread, Merrill watched the way Fenris’ throat moved as he leaned back for another sip.

It felt intimate, sitting together at midnight, worrying over Hawke and the things they had seen.

“Hawke cares too much about their family to leave,” she found herself saying. “Even when their uncle made it sound impossible, Leandra worked so hard to reclaim the estate. Hawke loves this place, even if they pretend they want to throw it all out. And Bethany…”

“Bethany deserves a home to come back to,” Fenris finished. The two of them peered at each other in the dark.

“Isabela would have kittens if she saw us now,” he observed after a moment. He looked almost amused.

 _I could ruin this, easily,_ Merrill thought.

“You said I was dwelling on ‘useless’ history, once,” she said. “But what are we doing?”

Fenris leaned forward, holding his cup in both hands.

“The past is important, to all of us.” Her voice barely carried in the small kitchen, but she charged on. “We must know it to move forward.”

“I made no deal with a demon to learn of my past,” he said pointedly. But it seemed like he was waiting for her to respond.

“Just now, you made it seem like you didn’t want Hawke to give up the Amells,” she suggested.

“It’s not about family history. It’s just a house,” he replied, sounding like his usual grumpy self.

Merrill nibbled at a piece of crust, thinking he could have responded in worse ways. “You _had_ a family.” Ah, there it was. “Yet you abandoned them to chase ghosts.”

 _You asked Aveline to track rumors of your sister._ She’d seen something on the Guard Captain’s desk. She finished her tea.

“And what of Varania?” she asked, very quietly.

Fenris set his own cup on the table once he’d emptied it.

He considered her for a long moment, then said, “We are nothing alike. Don’t even begin to think that we are.” Yet he sounded tired, almost resigned.

They stayed there for some time, preoccupied by their own thoughts. When they swept away the bread crumbs and washed out their cups, they moved around each other seamlessly, years of battling together guiding them in a strange domestic dance.

When they departed to different sides of the house, Merrill smiled at him, and he didn’t look away quite fast enough.

\--

Merrill hoped she’d be able to get more rest the next night, but something odd happened that morning.

She’d nearly walked out when Aveline and Anders did, making promises to return for dinner after work. It was as though the mirror was pulling her feet back to her home, and if Hawke hadn’t given her such a sad look, she would have answered the call straight away.

“On second thought,” she’d said, with a nervous laugh, “I’m sure it can wait. Is there something you need done around the house, Hawke?”

She, Isabela and Hawke spent the afternoon gathering Leandra’s things from every corner of the estate. Fenris was reading in the living room while Varric worked on a draft of his next book. Both of them came up to check on the others every so often, as they found old bits and pieces from the first time Leandra had occupied the house, all those years ago.

Hawke spent a long time looking over a portrait of their mother, uncle, and the grandparents they had never met. Despite their stilted poses, Leandra looked very much like Bethany, and her smile was warm.

Around noon, Fenris caught Merrill and Isabela disposing of the toiletries in Leandra’s room, and mentioned to them that Orana had prepared lunch. Monthly paychecks aside, she was practically a part of the Hawke family, and becoming quite an adept cook with Bodhan and Varric to assist her. Fenris’ unusually gentle encouragement had even led Orana to start referring to Hawke by their surname.

“Lunchtime,” he announced, as he moved to stand by Hawke’s side. Fenris studied the portrait that had captivated the rogue for the past half hour or so.

“I suppose your uncle always had such an odd taste in formal wear?”

Hawke snorted.

“He doesn’t go around in formal wear much, these days.”

“Come,” Fenris said, tilting his head toward the staircase. “You look like you could use a break. Perhaps we could hang it over the living room fireplace, if you’d like. Or in her room. Maker knows I’d rather not stare at that ugly shade of orange all day.” He flapped his hand in the direction of Gamlen’s chest.

“Pretty sure that’s _vermillion,_ my friend.”

Still, they allowed Fenris to pull them up and shepherd them down the stairs.

\--

Merrill once again found Fenris pacing around the kitchens after midnight.

“Witch,” he greeted her cautiously.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Mm."

Taking that for agreement, Merrill rooted through the cupboards while Fenris set up the fire and pulled out a kettle.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he sighed, while they waited for the water to boil. “But I’ve been having nightmares. Probably because of that ugly statue in the study room.”

Fenris looked reluctant to say more, so she quipped, “Perhaps we could get rid of it while Hawke isn’t looking. I know I find it creepy.”

He might have muttered something like ‘pot calling the kettle black,’ but she elected to ignore the him.

“What do you dream about?” she asked instead, not expecting an answer.

It took him a while to respond, as she had to get up to prepare their drinks, but he did speak once he had a cup cradled in his hands.

“I’m in a house I’ve never seen before,” he said lowly. “The whole of it could fit into one of the mansion’s hallways. I wake up in a cramped bedroom, and when I go downstairs I encounter three shades. They speak with me and answer even if I don’t say anything, as if they’re performing conversations I’ve had before.”

A frown creased his brow. “One of them is always cooking, and the foods smell familiar even though I’ve never seen fare like it. Another one teases me for my height and tells me to meet her in the garden when she’s finished cleaning.”

Merrill took a belated sip of her tea, fascinated by the rare sight of Fenris divulging something personal to her.

“If Hadriana was telling the truth about my having a sister… I can’t tell if the Fade is giving me what I want or if the memories are my own,” he said.

“It could be both,” Merrill offered. “I know that might not be what you want to hear. Is this a reoccurring dream? When did it start?”

“Right after I killed her,” he grumbled.

“It doesn’t _sound_ like a haunting,” she said, falsely bright. His eyes flashed with annoyance.

“The mind’s a tricky thing, Fenris,” she continued, her tone more subdued. “It seeks patterns in randomness, supplies answers where there may be none. When confronted with difficult truths, it may not come around right away.”

Fenris looked mildly appeased at that, though he still seemed troubled. She was almost tempted to end on a joke, but she finished her drink instead.

\--

A few days later, Isabela rescued a dusty, neglected lute from the attic. Orana, who had been taught to play in her youth, restringed it herself and took to plucking at it in the afternoon.

“Will you teach me?” Merrill asked her.

Merrill had vowed to stay at the estate for the rest of the week, in order to test the extent of Audacity’s influence. Months had passed since she last spoke with the demon directly, but discovering its more subtle influence had been… troubling. She was wary of the insistent tug that followed her throughout the day, and she had a feeling sleep would continue to elude her.

Hawke didn’t mind the company, at least, not while they were still in the midst of funeral arrangements and checking the urge to throw every note from the Kirkwall nobility into the fireplace.

Isabela and Varric had left to help—or more likely, distract—Bodahn and Sandal as they shopped for groceries, while Anders was back from the clinic early, and was humming as he worked on his manifesto nearby. By some divine providence, Fenris was out assisting Aveline.

All was peaceful in the estate. Until Orana decided to hand Merrill the lute.

Anders looked up with a wince at the dissonant ‘TWANG’ that emerged from the instrument.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to make that sound, Merrill,” he said, laughing.

“Switch your hands,” Orana suggested, with only a slight stutter. “There. Put your finger on the third fret… and there…”

Up close, she was really quite pretty. After a few months at the estate, she’d grown into her defined cheekbones, and eschewed the kinds of bright makeup that Hadriana forced her to wear for her amusement. A flush colored her bare face as she manually moved Merrill’s hand to form a chord.

“Now strum?”

Merrill shot Anders an immensely pleased look when the resulting sound was far more pleasant.

“Aha!” she said, taking her hand off the strings to point at him. Anders smiled as he got up from his chair and began to stretch, his bones cracking as he rolled his neck and shoulders.

“Oh, no, I’ve forgotten where my fingers are s’posed to go already,” Merrill muttered when she went back to the instrument. This time Orana joined Anders in laughter, but the hand she placed on Merrill’s gauntlet was gentle.

By the time everyone returned for dinner that night, Orana managed to lead Merrill through the chorus of a traditional ballad. Anders perked up when she finally produced something recognizable.

“I know that one!” he exclaimed, getting up to join them by the fireplace.

With Bodhan in charge of preparing the meal, Anders’ audience grew to include Hawke and Isabela, whom the dwarf had wisely shooed out of the kitchen.

Orana handed him the lute, and he began to go over the same chords.

The tune he delivered in his rusty, low voice, made use of what Orana taught her, but sounded completely different in Anders' hands. Merrill wasn't surprised by his take on the lyrics, in the end, as he called out to the Enchanters of the Circle of Magi. Orana looked a bit confused, but clapped gamely along. Hawke and Isabela began doing an exaggerated parody of a courtly dance, frivolous bows, clasped hands and all.

Aveline and Fenris appeared in the door as Anders finished a verse, crooning for the formation of battle lines and for others to join in the melancholy piece.

“Did you forget how to sing when you became an abomination, mage?” Fenris asked loudly.

Anders handed the lute back to Orana and fired an insult back. All was peaceful in the estate.

\--

That night, Merrill brewed a pot of tea in advance, and smiled when she saw Fenris rounding the corner.

“Thank you,” he said, when she offered him a cup.

“Did you have the dream again?”

“Yes. I’ve been noticing new details about the house. We’re by the coast, so we must be by Minrathous. I can’t tell how far back the memory goes, but…”

It seemed to occur to him just who he was sharing these memories with. His eyes narrowed as he met Merrill’s gaze, and she stilled.

Though she wanted to prompt him to continue, this was clearly uncharted territory for the both of them.

“If the dreams haven’t contradicted anything you know for certain,” she suggested gently, “Perhaps you really are regaining pieces of your memory.”

“I remember nothing of my father, but he has to be the third shade in these dreams,” he admitted. “I feel… at ease around him, in a way I never did around Danarius. None of the figures ever gain more detailed features, but. I thought I almost saw one of them with dark hair.”

In the sanctity of the kitchen after midnight, Merrill tried to imagine how much baggage they both shed at the door, in order to get along during these impromptu sessions.

“I think it’s encouraging that they aren’t resolving into real people,” Merrill observed. “A desire demon would bring you the family you _want_ to have, you would see them clearly. Do they still speak around you?”

“It is like... I'm participating in a play, going through familiar motions, though no one addresses me by name.”

“That’s good. Demons would speak to you directly.”

“I know this,” Fenris said, exasperated. “I’m not a child scared after their first nightmare. What good does this do?” He pushed his hair back to rub his temples.

“Hm,” Merrill said.

She narrowed her eyes at the three points on his forehead. Throughout their acquaintance, she’d always believed Fenris’ markings ended at his chin, but his hair had always hung over his eyes.

The moment seemed suddenly significant, and she tried to remember what she was going to say before she noticed.

“What?”

“Do you get frequent headaches?”

“Just one of the many gifts these markings bestowed. Why.” He looked suddenly wary.

Merrill pursed her lips. “I was going to say I believe you,” she said calmly. “Oh, I mean, I still do. But… well, I remember what you said about your markings. You said they were given to you in a ritual…”

“In which the pain was so singular that it wiped away everything I knew of my past life,” Fenris interrupted her, lest she underestimate how much his life had changed when his skin was marked.

The scholar in her was impatient, however. “Yes, but what if the magic they used _actually_ made you forget?”

Fenris stood abruptly. “If you’re thinking of performing some foul experiment on me, witch—”

“That has _never_ been my intent and you know that!” Merrill realized that she, too, had stood, and raised her voice. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to sit back down.

“I just noticed the points on your forehead.” Fenris smoothed his hair back again and raised a brow at her. “Yes, those. Triangles, the number three, they’re very powerful in casting. They’re found all over, even in the most complex spells.”

“Your point?” Fenris still looked ready to bolt from the room, but at least he seemed interested in what she had to say.

“Just as a warrior does not swing their blade without cause, no mage casts spells without a plan,” Merrill said cautiously. “Little ones quickly realize they can summon flames if they’re afraid of the dark, or cool a room with ice spells when they’re suffering a fever. Your markings must have been designed in some way.”

“The only thought that went into their design is whether they were aesthetically pleasing to Danarius’ eye,” Fenris snapped, hackles raised once more.

“I am trying to help,” she exclaimed. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Have you ever felt the effects of a horror spell?” she asked eventually.

He nodded once, eyes narrowed.

“Well, how do you think a mage figures out what you are most afraid of?”

“Entropic magic is only a step away from blood magic,” Fenris replied. “I imagine demons are attracted by the spell and root through the victim’s mind?”

“Nothing so complicated,” Merrill said, though she tried not to condescend.

Fenris had certainly endured more harmful spells than she—it was only fact that he was the more experienced warrior. But he was too invested in the idea that all mages relied on spirits to power their magic.

“In some texts, they’re called panic spells, which may be a more apt name. They only produce a _suggestion_ of fear. The more you fight it, the more terrified you become. Whatever visions you might see are a result of your mind attempting to regain control,” she explained.

She received an inscrutable look for her efforts, but Fenris evidently decided it was safe to sit back down.

“Even the most experienced mage can only cast those spells for five to ten seconds, at the most,” he said. At least he was taking her seriously, Merrill thought. “Though if my life thus far has been a vision from a prolonged horror spell, I would not be surprised.” That last bit he muttered to himself, but she heard him anyway.

“What if you’ve been having these dreams because your tattoos formed an entropic seal of some kind?” she pressed on. “If, after all this time, it’s begun to weaken, it’s because your master isn’t here to reinforce it.”

Fenris still looked unconvinced. “Tampering with someone’s memories sounds more like blood magic than entropy,” he said.

“He probably used both. All he would need to do is suggest the presence of a barrier between old and new memories. The harder you tried to think past it, the stronger it would become? You must see where I’m coming from, at least,” Merrill said.

“The implications of your theory are disturbing,” was his blunt reply.

“But they are testable,” Merrill said, suddenly alight with possibility. “I’ve known for ages that you’ve had blood magic performed on you, it only just occurred to me there might be ways to _undo_ his work—”

“This conversation is _purely academic,_ ” Fenris interrupted loudly.

“Of course,” she agreed quickly, before the strange peace they had created here over the past few nights broke and he tried to strangle her.

They lapsed into silence. Merrill snapped a bit of flame into her palm to heat up her tea, ignoring the scowl Fenris shot her way. “Would you like me to warm your drink, too?” she asked mildly.

“No, thank you,” he said, in his usual sullen baritone.

After a sip, Merrill sighed and surveyed the room.

“Anyway, it would most certainly take blood magic to lift the barrier,” she mused. “Supposing he used slaves to power his work, it would require more than my blood. Perhaps you, me, and a third source… power of three and all…”

“I do not appreciate where you’re going with this, witch,” Fenris spoke up.

“I haven’t been back to the mirror since we agreed to stay with Hawke.” If it seemed like she switched tracks suddenly, her thoughts weren’t entirely unrelated. She felt like she was investing herself in Fenris’ problems because she’d been ignoring her own, the insistent whisper of Audacity at the back of her mind, the knowledge that they were attempting to pressure her into resuming her work.

“Good,” Fenris said shortly. After a beat, he unexpectedly asked, “Is that why you haven’t been able to sleep?”

Merrill tried not to show how much that shocked her.

“Why, Fenris,” she said, her tone deceptively light, “Do I detect a note of concern?”

“You’re deflecting.” He raised a brow, dared her to challenge him.

“So are you,” she countered. “If I found a solution to your memory problems, though I have little doubt it will involve blood magic, then I would gladly offer you the chance to cleanse yourself of it. I think… what I’m trying to say is, you’re not alone in this.”

It was something she hoped for herself. She might have fancied herself a lone wolf, once, when she had just left her clan. But wolves were not good omens, and she was beginning to realize she would need to tread cautiously once she submerged herself in her work. She couldn’t afford to give everything to Audacity, not if she wanted to see the fruits of her labor.

“I can think of no better way to control someone than to cut them off from their past,” Merrill continued, trying not to think too deeply on what that said about her own circumstances.

“What your master did to you was horrific and I’m offering you a chance to change it. You know Hawke would drop everything to help us, right? The way we did for them? I’ve shared this with you because I think you deserve to know your options. I know this is all hypothetical, but… there would be no unwilling sacrifices made here.”

Fenris closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

“The first time I escaped, I was taken in by a group of warriors who lived in the jungles of Seheron.”

Merrill blinked at the change of topic, but did not interrupt him.

“They were an adaptable people, and took on many philosophies, some conflicting,” he went on. “I learned much of the Qun from them. But they had a saying. ‘Let old ghosts rest.’”

“That sounds like something my Keeper would say,” she responded after a moment, contemplating the man beside her.

“Then there is some wisdom among your people.”

“What’s going on? Fenris, Merrill? What are you two doing up so late? All the lights are out...”

Both elves jumped to see Hawke appear in the door. They were rubbing their eyes and yawning as they held up a candle.

“Would you like some tea?” Merrill offered meekly.

As Hawke stepped into the kitchen, Fenris stood and offered his chair. “It is late. I promised Aveline I would join her in the morning. I bid you goodnight, Hawke.”

On his way out, he paused in the doorway as Hawke grabbed a cup and handed it to Merrill.

“And, Merrill?” She nearly spilled at the sound of her name. “Thank you.” He was gone before she could think of a response.

\--

Fenris made his way up the stairs, his chest oddly tight. Though he knew it would be better to go straight to bed, instead of entertaining foolish late night thoughts, he was drawn to the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room he had claimed.

Most of the mirrors in his own mansion were tarnished or broken with neglect, so there was little in the way of reflective surfaces to startle him. This was the first time he felt the urge to look at the name still tattooed onto his torso after several years.

Fenris made himself sit in front of the mirror after indecision caused him to halt in front of it for a full minute. It was foolish to fear what he might find if he peeled off his tunic, and yet. And yet.

Finally he leaned back and frowned at his face in the mirror, in an attempt to distract himself from his bare chest. But the mark remained, each letter stood out from his brown skin as insistent as ever.

The strokes had evened out over the years, though her handwriting had always been small, precise. He couldn’t remember if it had been this dark when they first met. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he placed a hand over his hip and met his reflection’s luminescent stare.

Was this just another way his body had decided to betray him? Or if Danarius truly was to blame for his strange dreams, could he have peered into his future somehow, or been so lucky to pick a name at random that would torment him so? Was he refusing the obvious, or was there something else he just didn’t see?

“Idiot,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if he meant to refer to the witch or to himself.

\--

Merrill figured Fenris was avoiding her when he didn’t show up to the kitchens the next night, nor the night after that.

Hawke did, though, as they had forgotten about Merrill’s special blend, and the tea had helped immensely the first time.

Her and Hawke’s conversations were… strangely routine, compared to the ones she’d had with Fenris. Hawke’s grief persisted even in the twilight hours, and they was full to burst with stories about their family.

After losing Tamlen and Mahariel, grief was an old friend. For once she found she was in her element, coaxing them to speak their mind, laying their stories out on the table and crying over them together.

(Anders once admitted that he had not been able to cry since he joined with Justice, not even after Karl’s death. She was relieved, then, when crying came as easily as it did when she was a fresh-faced _da’len_ who wanted desperately for her clanmates to like her. Still, she wondered if a day might come when she could not empathize with her friends as she did now, and the possibility worried her deeply.)

At least Merrill knew what to expect from these last few sessions, and she felt like she could actually help Hawke work through their losses and move on.

Tonight, she held their hand as they haltingly told of times when Carver would harass Bethany into letting loose some accidental magic: pulling on her pigtails resulted in his own hair bursting into flame; sneaking around to scare her had caused quite a shock for both of them in the form of lightning spells.

Carver had even tried to trick his twin by placing insects made of twigs and spare bits of twine around the house, but their _father_ had been the one to throw fireballs, that time.

Their imitation of the late Malcolm Hawke squealing over spiders had sent the two of them into helpless peals of laughter, hastily hushed in respect to others trying to sleep in the estate.

She wished she could be part of stories like Hawke’s but, as Marethari’s First, she had always felt removed from the rest of the clan.

Tamlen and Mahariel had gotten into plenty of trouble, though. “One time,” she shared, in a judicious little whisper. “The two of them broke into Master Ilen’s liquor stash and drank enough between the two of them to water the whole forest—and that’s what they did! Wandered too close to a pack of sylvans and nearly got smacked to death for relieving themselves on the lot.”

“ _No,”_ Hawke said, aghast.

“Tamlen used to say that was the fastest he ever saw the creatures move,” she giggled. “They were chased all the way back to camp. The Keeper was furious with them.”

Merrill trailed off, her expression sobering.

“These stories aren’t like the ones we usually tell, are they? I don’t think I’ve spoken of my clanmates to anyone in... ages, it feels like.”

“It does feel a bit strange to put these memories into words,” Hawke agreed quietly. “Do you suppose this is how Varric comes up with some of his stories?”

Merrill squeezed their hand. Several weeks ago, Varric caught onto rumors that Bartrand was renting a place in Hightown, but Hawke had been reluctant to move in before they better understood the situation. No one had actually seen Bartrand in person, even though letters continued to flow in and out of the estate.

Varric had expected Hawke to support his decision to go after his brother, but instead Hawke told him to drop the matter. They’d argued something fierce about it.

“Hawke,” she murmured, “You made a call based on the information you had. Varric understands that. With everything that’s happened, I don’t think he’s particularly eager to have a family reunion right now.”

“Then why did he start going out on ‘business’ during the day?” Hawke mussed up their hair, looking positively miserable.

“I know he’s still gathering information on his brother, he just left me out of the loop. I’m worried he’ll do something rash.”

Their tea sat by their elbow, cold. “You should have seen the way he was going on with Anders the other day. ‘Boiling in oil?’ No, too boring. ‘Trapped in a cave with bears?’ Too easy. I think Justice was having an off day, since the two of them were laughing about turning him into a gold statue for the Viscount’s office!”

“Maybe...” Merrill said, knowing Hawke was still vehemently opposed to fratricide, “maybe Varric is looking for closure, the way you are now. Your situations are obviously very different,” she clarified quickly, as Hawke raised their head to look at her.

“But I think he needs to speak to his brother, at least one last time. If he tries to go alone, who knows what might happen to him, or what he might try to do? It would be best if we saw this through with him, wouldn’t you agree?”

It was nearing the end of the week, and Merrill knew that once they all left the Amell estate, they would need to return to their regular duties, their routine lives. The mirror still called to her.

If she could keep finding reasons to stay with her friends, if she could put off visiting her home for another day, then she might be able to return to her restoration efforts anew, without Audacity haunting her every step.

She recognized how odd it was that a few late night conversations, most of which hadn’t touched her own problems, had spooked her into caution, but she was grateful. She wouldn’t let her defenses slip. Her mind was sharp, and she had more than the mirror—she had friends who wanted her by their side.

Hawke got up from their seat to hug her. “We’ll go tomorrow,” they declared, and in their voice she heard a new strength emerge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Props if you can spot the Mass Effect reference! Dear readers, please let me know your thoughts on how the story is shaping up so far.


	6. Chapter 6

Aveline was pissed.

Arms crossed, she faced off against Anders in Hawke’s foyer as the man accused her guardsmen of being ‘just another arm of the templars.’

“That is completely unfair!” Her voice practically shook the house. Anders was prodding at a particularly sore spot. Meredith had hardly been subtle in the past three years as she took over many of the late Viscount’s responsibilities, and she made it explicitly clear how little she cared for the guard.

As Hawke strode in, they could see Orana disappearing upstairs in a rush, and Bodhan herding Sandal into the study.

“If they show up here, I’ll know who to blame,” Anders replied. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Her armor clinked heavily with each step, and she barely acknowledged Hawke on her way out the door. Why she decided it would be a good idea to wrap up business with two of Hawke’s most frustrating associates today, she had no idea. But she had another mansion in Hightown to visit.

Hawke watched Aveline go, brows raised. “What did you do to my favorite Guard Captain?” they asked Anders lightly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see that.” Hawke frowned. Would the argument have escalated if they hadn’t been there to see it? “I just… can’t be too careful. Now that the Knight-Commander has basically appointed herself Viscount.”

Taking stock of the situation, Hawke could see Orana peering out from the balcony and the Feddics returning to their usual spot. They sighed. “Here,” they said, instead of addressing Anders’ comment directly. “This might set your mind at ease.”

“What is it?”

“This key opens the cellars below the house,” they explained. “You can get in and out from Darktown, if you need a quick escape. And,” they looked a bit exasperated, but fond. “It’ll be easier to come round when you’re in the mood to revise your manifesto.”

“And if I’d like to come around for other reasons?” Hawke smiled at the look on his face; Anders rarely looked shy about anything. They leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Any reason is good enough for me. But first,” they murmured against Anders’ cheek, “I’m going to check on our grumpy guardswoman.”

Anders cracked a smile, an even rarer sight these days. “Fair enough. I was a bit of a tit there, wasn’t I?”

As Hawke pulled back, Anders caught their hand. “Thank you, Hawke,” he said. They’d been friends for many years, but whatever was happening between them now was new, formed sometime after the Arishok attempted to lay siege to Kirkwall. Isabela had rushed in with her relic to intervene at the last possible moment, but she and Hawke fought so bitterly after they were declared Champion that she escaped for the seas. Whatever they had before was lost, and the Champion of Kirkwall was now dedicated to far more important causes.

Anders leaned against Hawke’s writing desk and watched as they smiled and sauntered out—his lover, on the cusp of becoming a revolutionary icon.

“Are we done with the shouting?” Sandal asked, after the door closed.

\--

At least Fenris offered Aveline a seat in one of his more comfortable chairs. She removed her gauntlets and chestpiece with a put-upon sigh. Arguing with Anders had exhausted her, and Aveline wasn’t looking forward to weathering Storm Fenris after delivering what little news she had for him.

“Are you certain it’s her?” he asked, after a long moment spent pacing silently.

“An elf, matching your description, on the ship you named,” Aveline confirmed. “And alone, as far as I could tell.”

Fenris slammed his hands into the table, his gauntlets digging into the wood. “I need to know if it’s a trap!”  
  
Aveline gave him a long look. “The report barely covered a page, Fenris. I’m sorry I cannot say more.”

She would have left—Maker knew she had enough paperwork waiting for her at the barracks—but Fenris collapsed into the seat across from her and looked, for the first time, as though all the fight had drained out of him.

“Now it’s up to you,” Aveline said quietly, when the elf failed to lash out a second time.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Fenris mumbled, contrite. Aveline relaxed back in her seat with a fond look. “I am… indebted to you. I could trust no one else to put Hadriana’s claims to the test. The work you and your men have done, to bring her here, is extraordinary.”

“You knew to turn to Minrathous after we found she’d left that Magister’s service,” Aveline pointed out. “And it was your contacts that ensured your letters would go through.”

“Without the coin you and Donnic provided—”

“You would have found a way to bring her to Kirkwall regardless. You’re more resourceful than you think, and more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever known.” They smiled at each other. “Besides,” Aveline continued lightly. “I’m fairly sure half that coin was won in those weekly diamondback games you and my husband play.”

He chuckled at that. “So your man finally admitted to his gambling problem?”

“Hardly,” she turned up her nose. “He just knows to support a good cause when he sees one.”

“Fenris?” A voice called from below.

“Up here!” he called back, recognizing Hawke’s voice and the way they noisily announced their presence, stomping their boots and dancing past the traps he still had scattered around the entrance hall. Everyone else, including Aveline, knew to use the kitchen-side entrance, but Hawke loved to put his main defenses to the test. It had been one of Isabela’s favorite games, too, before she left the city.

“I should probably head back,” Aveline said, stretching as she rose from her seat.

“Varania promised to stay at the Hanged Man for a full week, at least.” Fenris handed her the gauntlets and chestpiece she’d set aside, and was undoubtedly hovering as she took her time sliding on each piece. “I would appreciate if you could be there when I meet her.” He hesitated around the word ‘appreciate,’ as it didn’t seem adequate to express how grateful he was to her.

They’d come a long way from the conversations they had when they first met. Now Aveline couldn’t imagine a time where she didn’t carefully consider her patrols, or take extra steps to gather information outside of what was usually required for the guard.

Her people were more than a routine presence in Kirkwall’s streets. For everyone that Meredith forgot in her increasingly sweeping crusade, Aveline was still their Guard Captain, and she would do everything in her power to support her own.

“Oh, Aveline!” Hawke entered the room, slightly winded but wearing a wide grin. “I was hoping to find you to—have I missed something?”

Fenris gave them a smile, a small, cautiously optimistic thing. “It’s my sister. She’s coming to Kirkwall.”

\--

Days before Varania’s ship was set to arrive, a familiar figure took up her spot by the bar at the Hanged Man.

Varric declared that cause enough for celebration—even if the “Queen of the Eastern Seas” kept insisting that her visit was short-term, and solely dedicated to procuring a ship of her own—and began preparing for an evening of excessive drink and gambling.

If he neglected to mention the entirety of the guest list to Hawke, well, Varric _had_ enlisted Merrill to help spread the word and it was probably just an issue of oversight.

Hawke arrived at the Hanged Man right on schedule, waving at a few patrons, already varying shades of drunk and drunker before the sun set. They made their way to Varric’s room, humming.

Of course, by the time they shut the door to Varric’s palatial suite, there was only one figure sitting at the table, taller and in possession of far less chest hair.

“Maker’s breath,” they blurted out.

“Hello to you too, Hawke.” Isabela looked glum. “I see we’ve both been set up.”

“I should have known,” Hawke muttered. “Is Varric even here?”

“He stepped out to get drinks, probably the moment he heard you were on your way.”

Unbeknownst to the two of them, Varric had his ear pressed to the door, with Merrill, Anders, and Aveline above him. Fenris was in the middle of a game with Donnic on the main floor, having declared the four of them hopeless busybodies (Donnic enjoyed the look on his wife’s face at that particular accusation).

Hawke looked about ready to march out the door, but Isabela spoke again. “Remember what you said after the mess with the Qunari?”

For the past three years, Isabela joined various crews on temporary jobs, ensuring her old raider contacts weren’t slipping into the slave trade or other less-than-savory practices. She called it business sense, but perhaps she was really speaking from a guilty conscience.

Varric and Merrill managed to find ways to send her letters regardless of where she ended up on the Waking Sea, and Isabela might have wanted to chew them out for their insistence… but she missed them. She missed Kirkwall. When even Aveline managed to contact her, sending a report of all the work they had done to track down Fenris’ sister, she knew she had to come back. Her last jobs dropped her off near the city, and in her heart she realized she’d found the one place she wanted to call home.

Hawke remembered that fateful day. They had thanked her, before dissolving into a massive argument.

“The city is still recovering from the attacks,” they said instead, frowning. “All those people didn’t have to die.”

“Yes, it’s true!” Isabela exclaimed, standing abruptly. “I could’ve handed the relic back to the Qunari, or never stolen it in the first place. I didn’t because I’m selfish. You were right about that too.”

Something in Hawke wanted to object to that, even after everything—“But you came back. You helped save the city.”

“Bullshit. You could have stormed the Keep and slaughtered all those Qunari if you had to. You, and Aveline,” she added the Guard Captain’s name with a half-hearted sneer. “I mean, look at her. She’s a woman-shaped battering ram.” The eavesdroppers looked up at Aveline, who just rolled her eyes.

“The fact is,” Isabela continued, before Hawke could make a smart remark, “You and I have nothing in common anymore. You’re a _Champion._ And I’m just a lying, thieving snake.”

“You’re just afraid of being anything else,” they countered, stepping toward her.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.” Isabela met them, toe-to-toe.

“That’s not true,” Hawke objected. When they got angry, their voice filled the room, their eyes held a spark she’d never seen in anyone else. Hawke was special, and they had no idea the power they held, the charisma to persuade even a wretch like her to care about something other than herself.

“You care about Kirkwall and her people, as much as you hate to admit it. You care about freedom, and choice, and doing the right thing, even when you put yourself at risk. You care about your friends.” Hawke softened, unable to stop themselves from adding, “I still care about you.”

Anders must have leaned too far to listen in, because he cried out as he fell into Merrill and Varric, the three of them landing on the floor in a messy heap.

Unfortunately, they failed to untangle themselves before Hawke threw open the door and glared down at whatever had interrupted the moment.

“Oh, no you don’t, Guard Captain!” Hawke exclaimed, catching a glimpse of red hair as Aveline sped down the stairs, attempting to rejoin Fenris and Donnic before it was too late. “Anders!” they groaned, as the healer procured a cloth to wipe away whatever Merrill had touched on the tavern floor. “I can’t believe you lot!”

Isabela looked about ready to scold everyone, too, but she lit up at the sight of Merrill’s apologetic gaze and swept her into a hug. “Kitten!” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry I left you with this sad bunch. They’ve turned you to villainy and gossip. I’ve failed you.”

“You’re the biggest gossip I know,” Merrill said into her hair, giggling.

\--

Once they were all settled around Varric’s table for a game of diamondback, Aveline spoke.

“We had a feeling you two would avoid each other as long as you could,” she exchanged smiles with Varric. “So you’re welcome to blame all of us for staging an intervention, not just Varric. Maker knows you two have too much pride to admit when you’re wrong.”

“I resent that,” Hawke said with a sniff.

“Aww, Aveline,” Isabela cooed. “You must have just missed the only person that can teach you how to win at diamondback.”

“Cheat, you mean. And I already have a good teacher.” Donnic draped an arm around Aveline’s shoulder and grinned.

“Oho, we’ll see about that. Five sov says you’ll still be the first one to fold.”

“I feel I have to take that bet in my wife’s honor,” Donnic countered, laughing as Aveline pushed him into Fenris.

“I feel like I’m eating an entire tray of sweet rolls when I’m around you two,” Hawke chimed in.

“Now you know how I got the material for that other serial, Rivaini,” said Varric. “By the way, my next installment has a working title of _Trial by Magefire._ ”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Aveline, Hawke, and Anders at the same time.

Isabela’s grin was practically predatory. “Speaking of romance. You, Anders… and Justice? That must be exciting!”

She watched in delight as Anders’ fair skin lit up with a blush. Hawke rolled their eyes, but reached over to take Anders’ hand.

“As they say, two’s company, but three is _better."_

“I thought we were setting up another round?” Fenris interjected loudly, receiving grateful looks all around, even if Anders had a begrudging set to his mouth and Isabela was clearly disappointed.

Ten minutes into the game, however, she asked, “You don’t like his spear of righteousness, then? Everyone deserves a good smiting, now and then—”

“I fold,” Aveline announced over Donnic's dismayed groan. “In the meantime, I’m getting us another round to honor the return of our favorite nosy harlot.”

\--

Fenris emerged an unlikely winner of the night, but had to split the winnings with Varric on a technicality, and Hawke was saddled with the tab.

Though most of the group retreated to Hightown to call it a night, Merrill remained at the Hanged Man. Varric had started to tease her over the lengths of time she spent at home with the mirror. At least she recognized his comments for concern, and her absence from Hawke’s adventures _was_ becoming more noticeable.

During their game, Hawke had gone off about a job with a chantry brother and an agent of the Divine, and the drunker they got, the more things they had to say about the Grand Cleric. Merrill had been completely out of the loop. That was only part of why she stayed to watch Isabela throw a bunch of her knick-knacks around her rented room, the two of them chatting like she had never left. Mostly, she just missed her best friend.

As the pirate spread a quilt over her bed, Merrill finally worked up the nerve to ask, “Why did you come back to Kirkwall, Isabela?”

“Because I missed you, Kitten,” said Isabela promptly. She did that, sometimes—tossed out vulnerable statements like a handful of coppers, carefree and easy to miss.

“And Varric wanted me to proofread his next book, and I still haven’t figured out the color of Fenris’ underclothes, and Lady Biceps needs me to keep up her confidence, for the guard’s sake… and Anders still owes me money.”

“And Hawke?” Merrill asked, when Isabela became distracted by the next item she pulled out of her trunk. An intricate model ship lay within the glass bottle she turned in her hands. She had a faraway look in her eye.

“What about Hawke?” Isabela muttered belatedly. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll drag us all off on some grand adventure or other, but there’s plenty to _occupy_ them in the meantime.” She set the bottle on the mantelpiece with a bit more force than necessary.

Realizing this line of questioning was only going to upset her, Merrill switched tactics. “I’m glad you’re back,” she admitted quietly.

Merrill made her way over to the newly-made bed and patted the space next to her, taking Isabela’s hand once she joined her.

“Do you mind if I stay with you?” she asked. “I’d much rather you tell me about all the adventures you’ve had in person!” And it got lonely in the alienage, when only the mirror waited for her to return.

Isabela brightened at that. She scooted back to lean against the headboard, brought Merrill to her side, and regaled her with everything she had encountered while rescuing her former first mate, Casavir, from a prison in Val Chevin.

\--

Isabela, as a rule, did not cuddle. She didn’t stay long enough for that to be a problem, usually, but Merrill had always been the exception.

When they woke up together the next morning, Isabela ordered a lavish breakfast spread, joking that the one thing she hadn’t missed about Kirkwall was the food. Merrill couldn’t recall a time she felt happier, wrapped up in Isabela’s quilt.

And yet, she felt like she was stepping on eggshells around Isabela, after her attempts to press the other woman about Hawke failed.

It felt as though Isabela already had a foot out the door, despite the fact that she looked right at home lounging in Varric’s room and reading choice bits of _Trial by Magefire_ in funny voices. Varric sat across the room, finishing off some letters to the Merchants’ Guild and laughing at every suggested edit.

Merrill couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was out of place, and she sighed, trying to commit the sight of Isabela’s wild hair without her usual bandana, the shape of her wicked grin.

After Varric left to deliver his correspondence, Isabela handed her the unfinished manuscript to snoop around his bookshelves, humming a vaguely familiar tune.

“Are you alright, Kitten?”

Merrill looked up from staring blankly at the first page of _Trial by Magefire,_ where Varric saw fit to draw a rough sketch of what he wanted the cover to look like, flowing hair and half-opened robes and all. He wasn’t even trying to disguise who the couple was based on.

Isabela smiled crookedly at her, and Merrill blurted out, “It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

As the pirate’s expression became puzzled, Merrill continued, “The way you teased Hawke and Anders… you don’t usually put people on the spot like that. At least Varric started checking in with Aveline for _Swords and Shields,_ this,” she gestured at the manuscript, “is unlike him. I don’t understand you two!”

Merrill stood up and began to pace. “I thought you would be kinder to them. We’ve all lost so much, but Hawke, Aveline, Anders… they still struggle with the past. Hawke might be the last one able to continue their family line. Aveline still carries her former husband’s shield. And no matter how many people Anders saves at his clinic, I don’t think he can move past the number of people who died trying to escape the Gallows. You and Varric understand what it’s like to be _marked_ , to have your futures written out for you. Our friends don’t have that, and yet they’re moving forward the best they can.” Merrill sniffed, mortified that her eyes were starting to sting.

“Marked?” Isabela echoed. “You’re talking about soul marks?” Merrill froze. “Oh, Merrill, I didn’t think you’d remember something like that.”

Isabela gave her a thoughtful look, but seemed unsurprised by the implication that Varric, too, had a soul mark. Maybe they had already talked about it.

If only Merrill had been brave enough to continue that brief conversation they had all those years ago, she wondered if this moment would be different. Maybe Isabela wouldn’t have left after arguing with Hawke, if she had just been honest, if she had just offered her support.

“I guess I never told you,” Isabela murmured. “My soulmate died about a year after we met. It was the happiest time of my life.”

Merrill watched in horror as the other woman’s smile turned sad, and she tugged at her hair to expose the faded mark.

She rarely felt compelled to look at her own wrist, but Merrill was suddenly struck by the possibility that soul marks _changed_. Isabela’s must have lost its luster because that person had slipped into the Beyond. She wondered if she’d still find the letters dark, as if freshly inked; if Leto might still be waiting for her.

“The Maker, the Creators… whoever thought these soul marks were a good idea obviously hasn’t had enough time to iron out the kinks,” Isabela huffed.

“It’s totally random, you know? Who receives a mark and who doesn’t. Yet Hawke told me that they were afraid that being the child of a soulmate union made them, and their siblings, unlucky. Like their mother and father used up all the good luck to make their relationship work. How crazy is that?”

Isabela lingered by a copy of _Hard in Hightown,_ silent for a long moment. Merrill was afraid to interrupt her.

“We… fooled around. For a bit. Way before the whole Qunari thing,” she finally admitted. “I’m quite sure I scared them off, because I’ve never been able to bring myself to commit to anything serious since…” Isabela turned her eyes to the ceiling. “I bollocksed it all up.”

_Wait. You’re not thinking about bringing feelings into this, are you?_

“I can see it, of course Hawke would make Anders happy. Hawke is... unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I just hope Anders can appreciate what he’s got.”

Merrill wondered if Varric would return soon. She felt badly for putting Isabela on the spot, when she was still coming to terms with her own situation. but Isabela’s eyes were sharp on her, suddenly, and she pressed on. “You have a soul mark too, Kitten. Don’t you.”

“Oh, Isabela,” she burst out, clutching her wrist. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I didn’t…”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about!” the other woman interrupted, eyes wide. “Look at us. Oh, Merrill. You’re the last person in Thedas I wanted to make cry! Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks.” That startled a laugh out of Merrill. Both of them reached out to wrap the other in a hug.

“You don’t have to tell me a thing about it, Kitten. But I’m here for you,” Isabela insisted.

“And I for you. Will… Are you planning to stay?” Merrill asked quietly.

Merrill could feel Isabela flinch above her, the pirate's chin resting atop her wiry black hair.

“I shall stay until the wind changes,” Isabela replied, with fake cheer.


	7. Chapter 7

Varania’s ship arrived in the morning, exactly on schedule, but Fenris spent the better part of the afternoon wearing a hole in the carpets.

Was she expecting him? Would it be strange to put off their meeting for another day or two? When he first came to Kirkwall, Fenris had been thoroughly disoriented by differences in the city’s language and culture. He didn’t know Varania well enough to say how she might adjust. What would she think of this place, the first that actually made him understand the word ‘home?’

In truth, it didn’t matter what Varania thought of Kirkwall’s rough edges or unusual people. Fenris was only afraid of how she would react once she laid eyes on _him._

By dinnertime, he’d worked himself into a frenzy, and was just about to start _cleaning_ the foyer when Hawke burst through the side door.

Rogue and warrior stared at each other with mirroring expressions of shock. Fenris could hardly believe that Hawke had used the proper entrance, for once, while Hawke had their eyes on the broom in Fenris’ hands.

“You don’t need to _clean_ for her, Maker’s sake,” Hawke said, aghast. “Let’s just go!”

And that’s how Fenris finally ended up heading towards the Hanged Man, torn between annoyance and gratitude. On one hand, he was glad that Hawke took charge as they usually did. On the other, he didn’t enjoy indulging in Hawke’s meddlesome nature.

Fenris was still coming to terms with the situation as he watched Hawke intercept Aveline while she was patrolling with her men in Hightown, flag down Isabela and Merrill as they came back from a dockside stroll, and slide next to Anders and Varric playing cards at their usual table in the Hanged Man.

In fact, it took him several moments to realize he’d been manhandled into a proper meeting.

Hawke looked incredibly smug as Varric pointed out a lone elf woman by the bar, and all Fenris could do was scowl.

As the rest of the crew settled into a new round of Wicked Grace, Fenris took a moment to compose himself. He didn’t like feeling manipulated, but he recognized what Hawke was trying to do. They cared, and they didn’t want him to squander a chance to meet family. So, he observed from his spot at the table and took a drink when Isabela offered.

If the woman truly was his sister, she looked the part. She had smooth black hair pulled into a bun, bottle green eyes lined with kohl, and was dressed well—he would expect no less from a tailor. She was nursing a drink, an effective shield against some of the Hanged Man’s more licentious patrons, and appeared alert, observing the chaos around her.

As he finished his watered-down ale, Fenris sighed. It would be foolish to leave. This was what he wanted, after all. Wasn’t it?

Fully aware that Hawke was more focused on him than the game, Fenris stood and began to walk over to her. When he stepped into her line of vision, Varania’s mouth fell open.

“It really is you,” she said, recognition coloring her angular features. She stood abruptly.

Fenris was cautious in his approach, and Varania’s smile turned sad when he shied away from her open arms. She tucked her hands into pockets lining her skirt. The siblings considered each other, the din of the tavern fading around them.

“I was young when they… took you,” Varania said, after a long moment. She hesitated around those last few words, inadequate as they were to describe what had separated them in his past life.

It was obvious that she was trying not to focus on his tattoos. The look on her face was wary, hopeful.

“We used to play in our master’s courtyard while mother worked. Do you remember?”

“I’m not sure I do,” he replied quietly.

Standing before him was the one person who could tell him whether his recurring dreams were memory or fantasy, and yet Fenris didn't know if he was ready to face the truth.

Varania glanced behind him, where he knew she would find Hawke eavesdropping. He schooled his expression before she could catch his knowing smirk.

Though he hadn’t known how she would react to Hawke and associates, Fenris was surprised to see her smile at whatever scene was unfolding behind him.

“I’d like to show you something,” Varania said, loud enough for the others to hear. “Of course, I understand your friends’ caution.”

Had she meant _friend_ singular, as he was pretty sure Hawke was the only one who would meet her gaze head on? Or did she really think every member of their merry band of misfits had a stake in this?

“They can all come, if they’d like?” Fenris blanched, and Varania chuckled. “I’d just prefer not to share our reunion with the entire bar,” she added.

Before he could respond, he was flanked by Hawke and Aveline. _Ah,_ he thought. Varania seemed utterly unsurprised by their approach.

“The Champion of Kirkwall and the city’s Guard Captain.” Varania curtseyed. “I see my brother has friends in high places.”

“You’re well informed,” said Aveline. She had her arms crossed, while Hawke wore one of their fierce grins, the kind that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Anyone else would have been intimidated. His sister just smiled back.

Before Fenris became overwhelmed ( _his_ sister, _his_ friends) Varania gestured toward the guest rooms.

“Just us, then?” she asked.

Fenris looked over his shoulder. Varric gave him a thumbs-up, Isabela a wink. Even Anders had a genuine smile for him.

Inexplicably, his gaze settled on Merrill. She had chosen a seat facing the entrance, giving Isabela the best view to spy on him. Twisted awkwardly in her seat, her attention wasn’t on him—instead, she was eyeing Varania like one of her dark magic books, a puzzle to take apart, or a spell about to backfire.

Odd that the witch’s caution reassured him more than the others’ encouragement.

“You’ll meet the rest later, I’m sure,” Fenris said, trying to ignore the fond exasperation that seeped into his tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a preview than a chapter, and for that I apologize. But I have plenty in mind for Varania so I hope you stick around!


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing Fenris saw was the staff.  
  
He reached for his blade, his vision went white. Varania was too close, didn't even need the thing to stun or set fire to the room—  
  
She threw out a palm to his forehead and he was suddenly overwhelmed with images, scents, sounds: _children's laughter; footsteps trampling through rows of elfroot and crystal grace; "Watch this," she whispers, coating a flower with delicate layers of frost_ —  
  
"Fenris!"  
  
Hawke's alarmed shout broke the flow of memory. They had their weapons drawn, as did Aveline. The siblings stared at each other, breathless.  
  
_"Incaensor,"_ Fenris spat out, but he could not draw any satisfaction from the way she flinched. _Volatile substance,_ the slur reduced magic-using slaves to veins of raw lyrium, gaatlok primed to explode.

It was low of him to resort to the word, even if they both knew there was some truth to it. People like her were dangerous, and Tevinter took great pride in those who could tame their fire.

But Varania had not been a slave for many years. She raised her hands in surrender and spoke quickly, with deliberate calm.

“Your former master tampered with more than you know. It would take too long to summarize several decades of lost memories,” she said. “Instead, allow me to share what I learned as a Liberati. _”_

Fenris wondered if she had ever been a tailor in Magister Ahriman’s service. Why had Hadriana lied about that, when all her other information turned out to be true? He cursed himself for trusting too readily, for not asking questions when everything seemed to fall into place.

His hackles were up, and he was pleased to note that neither Hawke nor Aveline had lowered their weapons.

“Speak, then,” he muttered. “But if you try that again, I will not hesitate to rip your heart from your chest.”

Varania did not bother with platitudes. Clearly, things had taken an unexpected turn for both of them, but Fenris could not help but admire her composure. Maybe he would have trusted her in a different life. But in this one, learning his sister was a mage still felt like a betrayal.

“The Imperium’s view on crime and punishment varies depending on the class of the accused,” Varania began by addressing the Fereldans in the room.

“Any Altus will tell you they would rather go through a public execution than spend the rest of their life in prison. Our nobles would commit heinous acts if they might be immortalized in poetry or song; the only thing they fear more than death itself is the dishonor of being forgotten.”

Hawke and Aveline turned to Fenris, seeking his reaction to what felt like a non sequitur. Hawke’s brows were raised in a way Fenris often saw when they were talking to clients in Hightown, as if they could stare hard enough to skip to the end of an excessive monologue.

“I mean to tell you about _damnatio memoriae,_ or ‘condemnation of memory’ in the common tongue,” Varania said, a touch sheepishly.

“It began as a political practice: destroying statues, erasing documentation, seizing property of any conspirators against the ruling class. The Archon and members of the Magisterium may have even condemned criminals _after_ executing them. It must not come as a surprise that they developed a magical equivalent.”

In the flash of memory she’d given him, Fenris recalled an impression of Varania leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. She remained guarded and sober in her speech, but Fenris could almost imagine her uncovering texts in some Magister’s library, thrilled by the lure of illicit knowledge.

“Eventually they figured out a way to condemn memory at the source. The Magisters weren’t content with just letting criminals fade into obscurity. They developed a seal with entropic magic that could selectively edit one’s memory, or erase it entirely. It’s not something  _ he,”  _ with that particular emphasis, Varania didn’t need to speak Danarius’ name, “Came up with on his own. To be able to take away knowledge of loved ones, home towns, birth years…”

“You’ve assembled quite a lecture around a practice that supposedly erases itself,” said Fenris, after Varania fell silent for several beats.

She barely concealed a laugh behind her hand. “It was never a perfect practice. It’s difficult to say exactly how many people the Magisterium removed from history, but once I found evidence that it was commonly used to subdue new slaves, split up families, and recondition soldiers... it all made sense. There’s no better way to control someone than to take away their past.”

He didn’t want to let her know how her last sentence disturbed him, how it brought him back to late night conversations in Hawke’s kitchen with another frightfully academic elf.

“Why tell me—tell us—all this?” he asked instead.

“Because it’s reversible,” she answered immediately. The word _obviously_ went unspoken.

Fenris watched her expression change, the way the corners of her mouth lifted with hope, how her brow raised with supplication. But he could see in her eyes that he would not like the natural conclusion to her research.

“Before you tell me the rest,” he sighed, “You ought to meet the others.”

“Are you still willing to associate with your mage sister, then?” Varania sighed, too.

“I had hoped to give you something unrelated. May I?” She gestured to her trunk, which was closer to the bed than her staff.

“Why don’t we wait outside,” Aveline suggested. She and Hawke were telegraphing to each other through wiggling eyebrows. Whatever they made of Varania’s pitch, he figured he’d hear about it later. He nodded to her.

Hawke left the door open, and the two of them framed the entry like a pair of solemn mabari. Fenris caught Varania smothering a smile as she bent down to open her luggage.

In her hands lay an ornamental dagger, sheathed in leather. Varania had already proved her intelligence through her research, yet Fenris wanted to scold her for being so cavalier about bringing out weapons into the open.

“And after I reacted so well to your staff,” he deadpanned, instead.

“It’s our father’s.” She smirked, an acknowledgment of her unexpected recklessness. “At least, according to mother. There’s an inscription on the blade.”

As Fenris unsheathed the dagger, he and Varania read the words together. _“Na via lerno victoria.”_ She looked up at him with a bright, surprised smile.

“I had time to learn, here,” he explained awkwardly.

“One of the servants told mother what it said.” Varania moved on gracefully, which Fenris could appreciate. “You and I were very little when he was separated from us, so mother used to say it was a sign he was still alive.”

Fenris wondered about his dreams, about the third unknown figure with dark hair and a calming presence. He then realized he was considering accepting whatever his sister might propose, and the thought was frightening indeed.

He watched as Varania brushed back her bangs to reveal a mark of her own, a triangle the size of a thumbnail with ornate curls around each point. It had faded into her brown skin and had she not known where to gesture, he would have missed it.

“He probably became an assassin,” Varania murmured. “He probably forgot us, too.”

Fenris turned back to the dagger. _Only the living know victory._

“You didn't break the seal." He didn't phrase it as a question. Varania represented everything he had lost in his past life, and everything that had tormented him in the one he escaped from. She was offering to do to him what she hadn't done to herself. Fenris wondered what she'd say, as someone who utterly lacked a sentimental view of the past.

They shared a glance, bent over the dagger like two halves of a bridge.

“By the time I realized, I was alone," she explained eventually. "Mother died, and I didn’t have enough power to get rid of it entirely.”

Hawke wasn't the only one capable of fierce, unhappy grins. It settled on Varania's face with such familiarity that Fenris felt as though had known her forever.

"I know what I need to, now."


	9. Chapter 9

Hawke and Aveline had clearly overheard their entire exchange. Where Aveline perfected her look of stoic disinterest, however, Hawke had never made a secret of their desire to meddle.

“You want to give Fenris his old memories,” Hawke said, as they made their way back to the tables. Fenris glared.

“Yes,” Varania replied carefully, with the look of someone on trial by a very enthusiastic judge. “But we needn't discuss it further; not tonight, at least. I intend to enjoy my time with my brother, if I still can.”

Before Fenris could answer his sister with anything more than a tentative smile, Hawke gave a breezy, “Of course! Of course. The family of my friend is my family. Or something like that.”

They rushed ahead to the table and Varania said, “I know this is a lot to process. But I hope to focus on the present, not just the past. In four days time, perhaps we could revisit this conversation? Over dinner here, at the Hanged Man?”

Fenris glanced at Aveline. She had supported him throughout this endeavor, and he respected her opinion. Her eyes softened at the edges in a rare sign of encouragement, so he nodded, despite the weight of the dagger at his belt, and the lump in his throat.

As they rejoined the rest of the group, Hawke cheerfully announced, “Everyone, Anders and Merrill especially, meet Varania.”

The aforementioned party members exchanged puzzled looks, but everyone quickly realized the purpose of singling them out. Hawke was rather good at tidy explanations.

“She’s with us for the week,” they continued, “So I expect everyone to show her the best of Kirkwall, and pretend the dirty bits don’t exist.”

“Not bloody likely,” Isabela quipped, as Aveline sighed, “Must you, Hawke?”

Fenris coughed to hide a rusty chuckle while Hawke sent him a grin.

“I’ll get the next round, then,” the Champion declared, and sauntered towards the bar.

Varric gestured to two empty seats by him. “So,” he began, with a nod to Varania. “Do they play diamondback in the Imperium? We had to teach your brother all the rules when he first got here.”

“That’s a lie,” Fenris said, annoyed, as he pulled out the two chairs. If Varania had hesitated to join the table before, she practically lit up at the question.

“There’s a saying among us,” she said, with a smirk all too similar to her brother’s. “Bet your coin in Minrathous and you may lose your fortune; bet your coin in Qarinus and you _will_ lose your dignity.”

“And where were you taught?” Anders asked as the siblings sat down. Fenris could see all the questions burning in the abomination’s eyes, and he would definitely have something to say about discovering a mage in the family. _Hang Anders,_ he thought, sending a sullen warning glare.

“Why don’t you find out?” Varania replied with an unexpectedly playful edge.

“Ooh, I’m going to like you,” said Isabela. Fenris put a palm to his forehead.

\--

Fenris ended up inviting Varania to see the rest of Kirkwall with him—a tour, suggested on a whim. They agreed to meet in the Hightown Market the next morning.

As he descended the stairs and nodded to one of Aveline’s men, he spotted his sister chatting with a vendor. She was dressed differently, in brighter colors and more elaborate layers. If she weren’t so much smaller than the nobles milling around her, she could have blended in perfectly.

 _Some wear freedom well,_ he thought, then frowned. Surely a change of clothes didn’t make someone more or less _free._

He hung back, interested to see how their exchange would pan out. Varania removed a purse from her sleeve and Fenris watched as she carefully counted coins in the palm of her hand. The vendor then pulled out two small candles for her to take.

As she slipped her purchase into a skirt pocket, Varania bid the salesman goodbye and glanced around, presumably to look for him. He lurched forward and called her name, suddenly conscious of his bulky armor and clawed gauntlets— _but why_ , he wondered, as she waved at him.

“Brother,” she greeted him, then gave an apologetic grin. “I’m sure you had a plan in mind, but I was hoping we could see your Chantry first. I saw a few priests passing through the market while I waited for you. All women! I must admit, I was curious about some of the tall tales we tell about the south, but things really _are_ different here.”

“You’re faithful?” Fenris asked, unable to hide his shock. He grimaced as her smile fell.

“So were… you know, this might be a better conversation to have in there, actually.” She showed him the candles. “When I was with Magister Ahriman, we were permitted to burn incense and pray while he attended mass, but I was traveling this time and I thought… I’d like to do it here, with you.”

She had bought a candle just for him, after all. “I know the way,” Fenris said, after a guilty pause. “And I don’t mind… though I cannot promise we will be allowed past the courtyard.”

As they walked together, he took note of how Varania held her head high and matched his long strides. He wondered if onlookers thought he was her guard, or servant, not her sibling. Where had she learned to carry herself with such purpose?

“Do you make your own clothes?” he found himself asking instead. He wanted to pinch himself for such an inane question.

“Yes, actually,” she said, with a look of pleasant surprise. “Mother and I entered Ahriman’s home as domestic servants. Other nobles in Qarinus grew jealous of the pieces she made for him and she gained quite a reputation among them. I learned the trade from her.” There was pride in Varania’s voice as she answered him, and some sadness.

“To Ahriman, I would always be a tailor’s daughter. I took over mother’s work when she passed, and served until last year, when came his time. And then, another Magister offered me a proper apprenticeship—so I took my chances and moved back to Minrathous. Frankly, it’s a miracle I didn’t lose contact with you.”

 _Which Magister from Minrathous allowed you to develop such strange theories? Don’t they realize how dangerous your knowledge is? Do they know who you’re with right now?_ Strangely, the thought of asking her any of these questions directly left him with a dry throat.

“When I first sent you a letter, my sources told me you were a tailor,” Fenris said, in an attempt to explain. “And no one thought to mention anything else about you. I apologize for… reacting poorly, when I realized what you were showing me.” That last part he mumbled as they passed by the Chanter’s Board and a sister reciting from the Benedictions.

Varania’s gaze lingered on the woman with interest, but she was quick to respond. “Perhaps the fault was mine, for it took me many years to be recognized as a m… someone of any talent.”

No one took notice as the climbed the steps to the Chantry, and though two sisters were chatting by the entrance, they hardly spared them a glance. Varania was not so bold as to stride up to the statue of Andraste, but he heard her stifle a gasp at the sight.

“I believe this used to be the estate of some Magister or other,” Fenris explained quietly, guiding her toward a pillar with candles and a donation basket at its base. “Back when this city was part of the Imperium.”

He hovered awkwardly as Varania knelt with her offering. As she patted down her skirts, presumably to look for something, she looked back up at him and laughed. “Come, sit,” she said, not unkindly.

“I’m surprised by how many buildings remind me of home,” she said, still rooting in her pockets. “You’d think they’d want to get rid of all the Tevinter influence. _Fasta vass,”_ she muttered. “I forgot matches.”

Most of the candles scattered around them had burnt out, since the faithful tended to visit in the early morning. It would be rude to use the sconces lining the walls, and they would probably be thrown out if they approached the sacred flame. Varania hummed thoughtfully.

“Don’t,” Fenris hissed, recognizing the look in her eye. A certain blood mage and abomination often gave off the same warning signs. If anyone saw her so much as summon a spark...

“Pardon me?”

Varania blinked at the matchbook offered by a man whose approach they had both missed. Shocking, considering he was covered in blinding white armor and owned blue eyes brighter than even Hawke’s unusual gray.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” the man continued, his brogue distinctly out of place. “It would be a shame if you came all this way for nothing.”

“Thank you,” Varania said, reaching up to take a match. Fenris would never use the word _shy_ to describe her, but she was more guarded than she had been with the Champion and Guard-Captain of Kirkwall.

“Ah, I’ve seen you before.” Fenris glanced up in disbelief as his sister took care of her offering. “You’re one of Hawke’s associates.”

“Many claim to know the Champion. Who are you?” Varania frowned at his cold tone.

“I apologize. My name is Sebastian Vael, and some months ago the Champion helped Grand Cleric Elthina with a… delicate matter. It was an honor to fight beside them, and they spoke well of their friends. They even offered to assist me in my own affairs, but,” he smiled wryly. “It was not in the Maker’s plan.”

“That does sound like Hawke,” Fenris replied, a degree warmer. “I am Fenris. My sister is visiting for the week, so we were just. Stopping by.”

He looked to Varania, but she had already bent her head in prayer. Back when he still wondered what his sister would be like, _religious_ was one of the last words he’d think to apply, and yet here they were.

Quietly, he continued, “I’ve worked with Hawke for several years now...” The reality of that statement hit him as he was saying it. He coughed and amended, “Well, I mostly find myself chasing after them in caves and sewers in their mad attempts to help everyone in Kirkwall.”

“If I understand Kirkwall’s Champion, they’re quite good at bringing people together for extraordinary causes,” Sebastian said, chuckling. “I am glad we met. Please, enjoy your afternoon. Too few feel welcome in the House of the Maker when the faithful do not extend an open hand.”

Varania looked up from her wordless prayer and nodded to the man. “Thank you, again, for the match. _Vitae benefaria,”_ she said, with no small amount of mischief.

Fenris watched as Sebastian gaped, most likely recognizing the farewell as Tevene. “Walk in the Maker’s light,” he replied faintly, and and wandered off.

“Must you be so reckless? Kirkwall’s recent history with foreigners ended with the dismemberment of at least two public officials.”

“Oh? So you consider yourself a local, now? I suppose you have been here for about a decade.” Fenris decided he didn’t like her more impish smiles.

“How did you… I suppose I must have said in one of my letters? Though it’s only been six or seven,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

Varania changed the subject with a laugh. “And you never stepped foot in here? When we were children, we used to recite the Canticle of Trials together with our mother. It was a favorite among the… us.”

She clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if attempting to recall where she left off. “How can we know You?” she mumbled absently.

“In the turning of the seasons, in life and death,” she continued, before Fenris could think of a suitable, and likely blasphemous, reply. _Ah,_ he realized, _she means to recite to me._ “In the empty space where our hearts hunger for a forgotten face?”

This seemed like a calculated speech, but he stayed silent, the words unfamiliar but unnervingly relevant.

“You have walked beside me, down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me.”

Varania’s low alto was soothing, but with each line, he began to feel as though she weren’t the only one speaking. Another voice echoed her, anticipated what she was about to say. And then Fenris realized he was speaking with her.

“I have faced armies with You as my shield,” they said together. “And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence. When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me, and the taste of blood fills my mouth—then, in the pounding of my heart, I hear the glory of creation.”

The rest of the words rushed through him. He felt light-headed, as he did when she first showed him the memory in their garden.

“You…” He pressed his hands into the floor and forced himself to stay very still.

Varania’s face was pale with shock.

“It wasn’t on purpose!” she whispered urgently. “I was under the impression it would only be affected by _magic._ It’s been years, you said it yourself. The seal must be very weak if you’re recalling memories from senses, words.” She shut her mouth abruptly, jaw clicking.

“But you’re right. I said we didn’t have to discuss this further. Please, believe me when I say I’m sorry for startling you. This is all new to me, too.”

Fenris took a deep breath, then sighed when he felt sufficiently calm.

“Why don’t we break for lunch?” he suggested carefully. “Varric can make up for all the coin he owes you.”

Her relief was palpable, and she allowed him to pull her up and lead the way to Lowtown.

 _Who knows me as You do?_ The words turned around his head with a powerful nostalgia he had never before experienced. _You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. You composed the cadence of my heart._

 _You’re family,_ he thinks, watching her from the corner of his eye. _My family._ _My sister._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: all good things must come to an end.


	10. Chapter 10

The next few days were comparatively uneventful. Varania tried not to speak too much of the past, and Fenris tried not to ask questions with answers he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear.

There was still a part of him that looked for hairline cracks in her history, looked to root out inconsistencies and get at the heart of why she actually agreed to see him. It was a self-defeating instinct and he wasn’t proud of it.

Fenris still _enjoyed_ spending time with his sister. That should have been enough. But the night before they were supposed to finish that discussion on his memories, he could not sleep.

He found himself fixating on the conversation he had with Hawke just after their encounter with Hadriana. _You come from a family of mages, despite not being one yourself,_ he remembered saying. _They’re your people. Whereas I... find it difficult to see the people behind the magic._

Had that changed after he met his sister? Would he truly be alright submitting himself to some ritual, to regain memories long since abandoned? He had stopped her before she named her price, but all magic of that nature came at a cost. And Fenris still wasn’t sure he was willing to pay.

 _This is going nowhere,_ he thought, groaning into his pillow. _It’s not yet midnight. Perhaps Hawke wouldn’t mind if I spoke to them directly._

After all, if he could trust anyone’s insight into his dilemma, he’d trust Hawke. Hawke, who was both compassionate and calculating; who made friends and enemies freely; who never seemed to succumb to doubt when asked to make decisions.

Fenris sat up.

 

\--

 

Of course, the one area of Hawke’s life that seemed in perpetual disarray had to do with romance, so Fenris should not have been surprised to see lights on in their kitchen and Isabela pouring whiskey into three teacups.

“Dare I even ask?”

Isabela whirled around with a butter knife in hand. Fenris waved the spare key that Hawke kept under the doormat. They both glanced down silently.

Isabela just let out a hearty chuckle and turned to fetch a fourth cup. “Only if you want to be scarred for life, I suppose,” she replied. “Do you want some tea or just the rest of this?” She gestured towards the whiskey, nearly empty.

“I’ll take the bottle,” he sighed. “I suspect I’ll need it.”

She considered him for a moment, then gave a decisive nod.

“That one’s for Hawke,” she said, gesturing towards one cup. “Be a dear and help an old pirate with her booty?”

Fenris rolled his eyes as she shot him a coy wink. As they ascended the stairs, he wondered, “Does this make me the third or fourth person of our acquaintance to see the entirety of your _booty?”_

To her credit, Isabela just snorted and cinched Hawke’s robe more tightly around her waist. “I think you’ve all gotten an eyeful, at this point,” she quipped, striding over to Hawke’s bedroom with purpose.

“Put your shirts on,” she called as she barged in, “I brought a friend.”

“Maker’s breath, Isabela,” Fenris grimaced at the sight of Anders scrambling out of bed to toss clothes around. “You could have warned us!”

“I could have,” she agreed with a grin. In the end, Fenris mused, it was worth the trip to see Hawke sit up, yawn, and turn bright red at the sight of him.

“Fenris! Ah. Um. What brings you here?”

They floundered for a full minute before Fenris decided to rescue them. “I hoped to ask you about Varania,” he said peaceably. “Not to comment on your personal affairs.”

“Though…” Fenris watched as Anders crossed his arms and sunk back into the bed. Isabela joined them, laying an amicable hand on the mage’s shoulder. He raised a brow at the trio. “I see you’ve managed to work things out nicely?” he observed wryly.

“Stop there, if you please,” Anders grumbled. Fenris leaned against the door frame and smirked.

Hawke and Isabela exchanged a look. “We hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Hawke began reluctantly.

“Varric and I have been keeping an eye on her,” Isabela cut in. Fenris suspected as much, given their permanent spots at the Hanged Man. “She’s mostly kept to herself, after her meetings with you. But she has been receiving… packages.” Now it was Isabela’s turn to look reluctant, though she didn’t hold him in suspense for long.

“Your sister has been buying lyrium.” Fenris frowned at her. “She’s discreet enough to hide it from most prying eyes, but there’s a lot of it.”

“It probably has to do with that ritual she mentioned on the first day.” Hawke took over for Isabela as they all turned to their drinks. _Well, shit,_ Fenris thought, to borrow a phrase from Varric. “But we wanted you to make your own decisions. That’s why we haven’t said anything.”

Fenris passed a hand over his mouth and exhaled. “That is… fair,” he replied eventually.

“One more thing,” said Isabela quietly. “She got a letter with the last shipment. I couldn’t tell you about the contents, but it seemed important to her. It could be from her employer.”

“Varania has said far more about her past in Qarinus than her current situation in Minrathous.” The admission left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I didn’t want to press her, but…”

“It’s not exactly reassuring, even I’ll admit that,” Anders said, in an unexpectedly diplomatic tone.

“I was afraid my suspicions were simply an overreaction on my part,” Fenris muttered, ignoring the way the mage huffed over his spiked tea.

Hawke smiled, though. “I distinctly remember arguing about this when we first learned about your sister,” they said, and Fenris warmed at the reference. “You’ve been through a lot, Fenris. You and Varania both. I think it’s fair enough that we prepare for the worst, even while we hope for the best.”

“We’ll settle this tomorrow. Dinner at the Hanged Man.” Fenris nodded gratefully to the two rogues on the bed. “Even knowing a bit more about her preparations is helpful. So, thank you.”

“I don’t want to intrude, but if you need us there…”

“You’ll be there regardless,” Fenris interrupted Hawke with an amused look. “But thank you for asking.”

“Right. Well, this has been sufficiently awkward for everyone involved,” Anders announced, and stood to stretch. “I should head back to the clinic.”

Hawke and Isabela murmured vague noises of protest. Both looked slightly embarrassed for it.

Given the utterly beseeching look on the Champion of Kirkwall’s face, Fenris grit his teeth and asked, “Do you need an escort, mage?”

Anders gave him a surprised glance. “There’s a shortcut through the Amell cellars,” he explained warily. “Thank you for the offer, though?”

“Then I have a question for you.” Fenris decided to ignore the fact that, apparently, Hawke had a direct line to Darktown in their damned basement and _used it_. “What’s your take on Varania’s ritual? What do you think she has planned?”

“Not the question I was expecting, but…” Anders considered him for a moment. “With all the lyrium she’s bought, I get the feeling she wants to avoid blood magic. And given everything you’ve told me about Tevinter, that’s… a surprise. But she is your sister, and I think…” he broke off with a chuckle. “Well, I think you should ask Merrill about this.”

“The witch?”

Hawke began to tidy up their room, and Isabela plucked the empty bottle from Fenris’ lax fingers.

“She’s been by my clinic five times in the past week to ask me increasingly complicated questions on magical theory. She had Justice stumped, and that’s no small feat. I thought she’d share her conclusions with you, but maybe she was waiting to see what you’d do… like we were.” Anders scratched the back of his neck.

“So you mean to tell me _everyone_ has been looking into my business, and I’m only finding out about this now?”

Fenris managed to hold back from stomping his foot on the ground, but only just. The trio exchanged nervous smiles and laughter as he crossed his arms.

“Why don’t I go with you to the alienage first thing tomorrow?” Hawke suggested, attempting to soothe his ruffled feathers. “We _care,_ Fenris. Obviously. And between all of us, I’m sure we’ll figure this out. Now, at this rate, it’s too late to go back to the clinic. Come back to bed, Anders,” that last part was echoed by Isabela, who looked about ready to shed her robe.

“I am _leaving_ now,” said Fenris over the mage’s embarrassed sputtering.

 

\--

 

There was no stopping Hawke once they had a plan in mind—they barely gave Fenris time to put on his armor before they were dragging them off to the alienage in the morning.

Fenris hung back by the stalls under the vhenadahl, feigning interest in their wares, while Hawke made a nuisance of themselves at the witch’s door. She had always been the earliest riser of the group, but at the moment she was certainly taking her time to answer Hawke.

The longer Fenris thought on it, though, the more he had to admit to his grudging amazement. Merrill had reached the same conclusion as his sister without nearly the same resources, nor the innate understanding of Tevinter society, nor any experience of the cruel vanity of the Magisters.

She had taken one look at his markings as they sat together in Hawke’s kitchen that night, and she _knew_ what Danarius tried to do all those years ago. And the witch had not given him an ultimatum, to recover his memories or leave them sealed away forever.

Was that unfair to his sister? She was sailing back to Minrathous at the end of the week whether he agreed to her request or not, and Varania hadn’t outright pressured him during any of their outings.

Perhaps Fenris only felt this way because she had seemed so thrilled by the chance to get to know her brother anew. They got along well enough, but always with the knowledge that there was someone else locked behind his lyrium brands, someone he once considered long-dead.

Fenris wondered what else he would discover if he went along with Varania’s ritual in a few hours. Would he remember how he was wrenched away from his childhood home by the coast of Minrathous? Would he gain any more insight into why the witch’s name adorned his hip? Or would he still have more questions than answers, assuming this didn’t outright kill him?

“By the Dread Wolf! It can’t be almost noon!”

Merrill burst from her home looking decidedly disheveled—no, that would be too flattering a term for the manic look in her eye. The witch looked as though she had not slept for days.

“Have you slept?” Hawke asked outright, Maker bless them. Before the Champion could go off on what was doubtless a well-rehearsed lecture, Fenris joined their side. Merrill blinked.

“Elgar’nan,” she muttered, “That’s today, isn’t it? Are you here to scold us for meddling, or…?”

“Hawke informed me of the research you’ve been doing on my behalf,” Fenris replied, dry and disapproving. “I would like to see it.”

“Oh.” Merrill’s eyes widened. “Alright? If you could just… give me a moment?”

She shut the door in their faces.

He and Hawke listened to Merrill scurry around her apartment, trip over something heavy at some point, swear to another elven god, and move several pieces of furniture before she opened the door again, winded but no worse for wear.

Hawke immediately looked to her kitchen area, where she apparently felt it important to drape a large threadbare sheet over her infernal mirror. Fenris, following their gaze, sighed.

“Come in,” she said cheerfully.

 

\--

 

It was as Fenris suspected: the witch had compiled extensive research into not one, but several ways Varania might carry out her ritual.

Given all the lyrium she had at her disposal, Varania most likely planned to send both into the same place in the Fade, and they could gather his memories together.

“Gather them? As in my memories are… _things,_ waiting to be picked up?” Fenris asked her.

“You won’t physically go there, of course,” Merrill said, “Since the last people to do that supposedly brought on the Blights. But yes, memories may take the shape of a significant object, or appear like a wisp. Even the most abstract concepts are represented in some way, in the Fade. More importantly, since Varania is a mage, she can exert some control over where you end up while you dream. She might even be able to lure your memories into one place, if she’s been preparing all this time.”

Hawke had a thoughtful frown on their face, but Fenris looked distinctly unhappy.

Suddenly, the Champion snapped their fingers. “Fenris, you weren’t there when we helped Feynriel. Arianni’s son?”

“The apostate? No, I wasn’t,” he confirmed.

“Marethari sent us into the Fade to prevent Feynriel from falling to possession,” Merrill stepped in. “Though Feynriel was asleep at the clan’s camp, all the Keeper needed to do was send us to the right location, his dream realm.”

She sent Hawke a pleased smile for making the connection as she continued. “Hawke showed Feynriel he was trapped in a nightmare, and he managed to wake us all up in the end. But it’s good you remembered—that little adventure helped guide my research.”

Merrill started to root around her piles of books and notes. Once she found a blank sheet of vellum, she spread it over her kitchen table.

“Though the Fade is a place, it cannot be mapped in the traditional sense,” she began, tracing a large circle in the center of the page. “Powerful spirits may preside over their own realms, but the Fade is constantly changing.”

In one corner, she wrote _Kirkwall memories._ An inch to the left, she wrote _Recent past._ And at the opposite side of the circle, she wrote _Forgotten past,_ drawing a line to cut it off from the rest.

“Think of distance as an indication of how important something is to you, how closely you associate with it. Let’s say we’re here, right now. In this part of the Fade, you’ve accumulated memories of your time in Kirkwall.” She pointed to _Kirkwall memories._

“Over here,” she pointed to _Recent past,_ “Is everything you know about what it took to get to Kirkwall. Your life with that Magister, your escape, your time with the Fog Warriors.”

Fenris looked up at her with surprise, not because she became uncharacteristically blunt when she lectured, but because she remembered the offhand remarks he made ages ago. He hardly cared to remember the details of her split with her clan, so it was… entirely meaningless of him to wonder. He shook his head.

“Over here,” she drew her pen over to the opposite side of the circle, “is where Varania wants to bring you. All of us have a bit of distance between our present and past memories, but you’re a unique case, since I suspect there’s an actual barrier keeping you from this part of the Fade.” She tapped the lines around that area.

She paused, giving room for questions. Fenris motioned for her to continue.

“Right. I can’t ask the Keeper what she did to bring us into the Fade, so I can’t say exactly what Varania plans to do. But I can tell you that _she_ will be at greater risk than you. If a mage dies in the Fade, they become tranquil.”

“Marethari said as much when we helped Feynriel,” Hawke confirmed.

“There’s a chance that demons will try to distract you… Isabela can tell you all about that.” Hawke grinned at Merrill for some reason.

“In truth, though? We’ve already done far riskier things, and I doubt your sister will use blood magic to give you back your memories, not with the resources she’s gathered. I hope… I hope that helps.” As Merrill concluded her pitch, all traces of her earlier assertiveness faded away. Fenris frowned.

“I wish I could have helped, Merrill,” Hawke said, as Fenris was still considering all her information, glaring a hole into her diagram. “Might have made all this easier if I were a mage.”

“Thank the Maker you aren’t,” Fenris muttered.

“It’s alright. Anders and I set aside some old arguments for the sake of academia,” Merrill replied with a smile. “And I think I’m on Justice’s good side now.”

“We should go. Varania is expecting me in an hour,” Fenris said, aware that he was being a bit of an arse.

If he hadn’t caught the full effect of Hawke’s disapproving glare, he would have missed the way the witch sighed as she started to rearrange her books.

“I’m not happy that you all decided to look into this behind my back.” Fenris stood and crossed his arms. “But I owe you. All of you.”

He made sure they were both looking at him when he said, “I just have one more favor to ask of you.”

 

\--

 

All was quiet in the Hanged Man, which was unusually empty for the hour. Anders, Isabela, and Aveline played cards near the bar, while Hawke and Merrill stayed with Varric in his room. A pair of mercenaries waring nondescript clothing sat in one corner, speaking quietly with the serving girl, Norah.

Most of the guest room doors were shut. The quiet in the halls had him on edge. He could hear Varric loudly reenacting one of their recent quests, Hawke pitching in with exaggerated voices and outraged gasps, and the witch’s tinkling laughter, and little else. Something was definitely off.

Fenris was glad, therefore, that he came armed.

Varania jumped when he knocked on her open door, nearly dropping the  sealed wooden crate in her hands.

“Brother,” she said, voice full of guilt.

“You’ve prepared for my agreement,” Fenris observed.

“Well, it takes a fair bit more than waving a wand around to get your memories back,” she countered wryly. “You seem prepared, yourself,” she added after a moment. “Did Varric tell you?”

“Varric watches over all the legitimate channels,” Fenris sighed. “But Isabela’s the one who fills in the gaps. If you’re asking whether I know what’s in those boxes, the answer is yes. I seem to have cultivated a network of professional meddlers.”

Varania stacked her box among others on her desk, then glanced somewhere over his shoulder, out into the hall.

“I’ll understand if you just want to go to dinner,” she said quietly. “But I wanted to give you options.”

“It seems everyone I know is trying to give me _options,_ and none of you bother to explain why until the last minute. Varania, surely I don’t have to tell you how dangerous it is to buy what you’ve bought? And in this quantity? Why didn’t you ask me to… to…”

“I knew it wouldn’t sit well with you, that’s why,” Varania interrupted him, sad and sharp. “This whole thing—I know it sounds absolutely mad, but brother, I desperately hoped you’d be willing to _see_ the truth. To try to, at least. I feel like this is the last thing that man holds over your head. If you just _remembered_ who you were, remembered your family, you’d understand what it means to have _freedom._

“Varania,” he called to her as she turned and crossed her arms. Her sudden anger lashed out like a slap to the face, and he wasn’t sure where it came from. Perhaps he would have, if he could properly recall her childhood self.

He could not reach out and touch her—they were not those children playing in the garden anymore.

“I’ll do it,” he said instead.

 

\--

 

The streets of Minrathous were narrow and cobbled, and the estates of the Magisters rose above all others on the island capital. Varania took off at a run down one of the twisting alleys, while Fenris was still processing the scent of saltwater and burning coal.

“Varania!” he yelped, watching her disappear around a corner.

“This way, brother!” her voice carried to him, as clear as if she were leaning over his ear. But there was no time to debate such oddities when his sister was beckoning him forward.

She took him past a marketplace full of beautiful men and women selling unseen wares, a duel unfolding in the middle of the street between two fresh-faced apprentices, and a breathtaking view of one of the ports, where sailors rushed about a ship ready to launch.

Varania never hesitated in her course, but with each unfolding tableau, Fenris could feel the press of memory around him, recollections trickling steadily in.

This was the city he grew up in. That was the market where he and Varania often tailed the slaves sent to restock the larder. This was the street where he started his first brawl. That dock was the last place he saw his father, turning away from his family with a knapsack over his shoulder.

If Varania gasped slightly when that particular memory hit him, they said nothing to each other until they slipped past the gates to one mansion.

“I know this place,” Fenris broke the silence first, shocked to see the house from his recurring dreams was not a house at all, but the slave’s quarters. He turned to the main house to see a robed figure peering out at the sea from the balcony.

“That’s not…”

“Magister Amladaris,” Varania supplied, as the woman turned to follow an unseen cue from within the estate. “She must have given our father in service to another noble family. On the mainland, perhaps?”

A few more pieces of memory came to him, though Fenris looked to his sister with concern. He was not the only one uncovering new information here, evidently.

“Why are we here, Varania?”

“This way, brother.” She had to physically shake off whatever dark thoughts came to her, but after a moment she turned to him with a confident smile.

They entered the slave’s quarters together, and it appeared exactly as it had in Fenris’ dreams. A slight elven woman with auburn hair tended to a small stove, her back turned.

“Ah, Varania! There you are, girl. Where is that brother of yours? Go on and fetch him, it’s almost dinnertime.” Their mother had a deep, warm voice, with distinctly foreign notes to her vowels. And yet, when she turned to call to him, his ears popped in the most unpleasant way:

“L̔ͨ͟e͂ͫ̆̚͠t̸̎ͣoͮͩ̈ͤ́,” she said, “I thought you left us to train for the upcoming tournament. Mistress says you’re likely to catch the eye of that Magister, Danarius. Have you... reconsidered, at last?”

“What… did she call me?” Varania stiffened at his side, even took a step back.

“Your name?” his sister replied warily. “L̪̄͑̂̍̆e̜̪͈̰͕͔̠ͤ̔̄̕t̡͔͙̰͉̝̓̇͌ͫo͍͑ͧͤͩ͗͠?”

“I can’t,” Fenris grimaced as his ears popped again. “What is this? What’s going on?”

“You’ve returned to us,” their mother took a step forward. Varania took another step back. “Oh, L̓͒ͫ̾̿̌̚͞e͒͑̊t̸ͣ̚o̶͑͂͐̚, if only you hadn’t believed our mistress so whole-heartedly. You couldn’t know what freedom meant to us, you couldn’t know what you agreed to fight for…”

“My brother and I must go,” Varania interrupted her and tugged on his gauntlet. “Come on. Please. We’ll be back, mother.”

_“No you won’t!”_

Her screech was abrupt, unholy.

“Wake up—WAKE UP!”

“Fenris, it’s a trap!”

Fenris opened his eyes to a nightmarish scene. Hawke and Varric were held back by a number of faceless mercenaries, but the men parted to allow another figure to step forth.

“Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable, as always.”

“You!” He surged up to greet his former master, swore as he chafed against metal cuffs that pinned him to one of the tavern’s chairs. He could feel lyrium humming beneath the shackles, rendering his markings useless.

“Unhand me at once,” he heard Hawke say in their best Champion voice, “I will speak to your Magister.”

“This is your new master, then?” Danarius chuckled, waving a hand to bring Hawke forward. “The Champion of Kirkwall? Impressive.”

“Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone,” Hawke drew themselves up to their full height, though they could not get close to either of them for the bodyguards that flanked Danarius.

The old man huffed with amusement. “Do I detect a note of jealousy?” he murmured. “I’m not surprised. The lad is rather skilled, isn’t he?”

“Where is Varania?” Fenris asked, before the situation escalated further. “What did you do to her?!”

“Your sister did what any good Imperial citizen should,” Danarius replied, accepting one of the sealed wooden crates from a nearby lackey. “She led me right to you.”

“That’s a lie!” Fenris yelled.

“Broody…” Varric called to him quietly. Only then did he recognize the sounds of a scuffle on the main floor. Danarius had managed to get the drop on every single one of them. Fenris had drawn them all into this mess.

“Oh, how little you know my pet,” his master laughed, confident that he had the upper hand.

“Shut your mouth, Danarius,” Fenris growled.

Several things proceeded to happen at once.

“The word is _master,”_ the vile man attempted to correct him, but was interrupted by several of his guards shouting in alarm as a smoke bomb filled the room. Choked gasps came one by one as they were felled by some invisible adversary.

When the smoke cleared, Varric, Hawke, and Isabela were all working quickly to free him from his handcuffs, and Danarius had fled the room.

“Let’s gut the bastard,” said Isabela, and they ran together towards the main floor.

“If you _dare_ raise a hand against me, Fenris, you will suffer for it!”

Danarius hid behind a large group of mercenaries and a thick magical barrier. Most of the Hanged Man’s patrons either fled or laid out on the floor with less fortunate members of Danarius’ crew, all fodder for what was going to be an inhumane display of blood magic.

Anders and Aveline were already engaged with the left half of Danarius’ crew. Fenris cast about for the last member of their team, heart sinking.

The witch was trading blows with his sister, screaming obscenities in common and elvhen.

“You betrayed Fenris!” said Merrill, “Your family! Your own brother!”

“His name,” Varania shouted above the unfolding brawl, “is LETO!”

Ice erupted from her in waves, catching some members of Danarius’ guard. He flung a fireball at Hawke and snarled at her, “Focus, girl!”

Fenris cut through another opponent, and in that moment he could feel the last of his memories click into place.

_The champion of this tournament is Leto, of House Amladaris!_

_Well, Leto, what boon will you ask of me?_

_I ask for my mother and sister to be freed._

_It shall be done. You will become my personal bodyguard, my most prized possession._

_My name is Danarius. You will call me master._

With Hawke and company drawing the fight to different corners of the tavern, Fenris had a clear view of the Magister’s barrier flickering out of existence, weakened by Varania’s indiscriminate outburst.

It was his chance to finish the fight. Fenris strode up to the weakened Magister and grabbed a fistful of the man’s robe.

Danarius shook from a lyrium overdose, his eyes unfocused, shifting madly left and right. He looked pathetic.

“You are no longer my master,” Fenris said, and snapped his neck.

None of Danarius’ mercenaries survived much longer than him. In a matter of minutes, the only one left was Varania, trapped by the stairs to the guest rooms by Merrill’s magic, which petrified her from the knees down.

“I had no choice, Leto,” she said when he approached her.

“Don’t,” Fenris barked, then gave a humorless laugh. “Do not call me that. You’re one to talk about choice, sister.”

They watched as Merrill dissolved her magic and the rest came to stand behind him. They were the only ones in the tavern now.

Varania, wisely, did not move a muscle. Her staff had been tossed aside in the fight. She knew she was at his mercy.

“He was going to make me his apprentice. I would have been a Magister.” She spoke quickly, hands in front of her, tone utterly placating.

“You? A _M_ _agister?”_ Fenris sneered. “The majority of the Magisterium would happily put you up for a public execution for trying. You forget your place; _Liberati_ cannot join the military or the government, much less become a 'model Imperium citizen.' You sold out your own brother for a lie!”

“You haven’t been in the Imperium for almost a decade, _brother,”_ Varanaia snapped, “You do not know it as I do.”

“And you have no idea what I went through as that man’s favorite toy the decade prior. You are more foolish than I thought possible.”

“You remember the tournament,” Varania replied, brave enough to roll her eyes at him. “For fuck's sake, Leto, they advertised the prize. You thought if you won Danarius’ favor, he would enable you to find our father. You thought you could earn all our freedom and buy a little house on the shore, and we’d all live happily ever after. You were more delusional than I ever was.”

Fenris reached out and grabbed her by her slender neck.

“You weren’t there when mother was dying, delirious with fever,” she spoke even as his fingers tightened around her windpipe. “She asked for you, over and over. She forgot you abandoned us. You were all she ever wanted.”

“Don’t kill her, Fenris.” Hawke touched his shoulder. Their eyes were hard, but Fenris was nearly blind with rage, and could only see their interference as a weakness.

“She would have seen me killed for her ambition.”

“I killed my brother,” Hawke said, and Fenris cursed them for causing his grip to slacken. “I know what I’m talking about.”

“It won’t help, Broody. Trust me,” Varric spoke up to his left.

What a group they were, victims of cruel fate and murderers both.

Fenris let his sister drop to her knees, coughing weakly.

“Get out,” he told her, when she had the strength to rise again.

She didn’t need to be told twice. But Varania paused at the door, turned to him with an inscrutable look.

“When you used your boon to have mother and I freed, we were so proud of you. But our mistress knew what you’d really done. She did far more for us by recommending mother’s services to Magister Ahriman.”

“Why did you do all this?” Fenris asked quietly. “Why tell me this now?”

“Freedom was no boon,” Varania spat. “I look on you now, and I think you received the better end of the bargain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this fic treads on a lot of familiar ground, but I hope I added a bit more of interest while wrapping up this quest. I think a lot about the Kirkwall crew's complicated views on family.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I find it infinitely easier to write dialogue between Varric and Merril, alcohol serves as a social lubricant, and Fenris and Isabela get it on. (Whoops.)

“Daisy, you missed out on one of the best missions we’ve had in years.” Varric strolled into Merrill’s apartment with a broad grin and a story on the tip of his tongue.

He faltered at the sight of her kneeling in front of the eluvian and staring vacantly at one corner of the frame. She looked as though she had not moved for several hours, if not several days.

“No shit, there I was at Hawke’s place, finishing up a game of Wicked Grace with the dog…”

At least he made a valiant attempt to claim her attention by filling her in on the events of the past week: Isabela learned that Castillon had tracked her down. She came to Hawke, and together they cooked up an elaborate plan to have one of his henchmen, Velasco, lead them straight to the man that had stranded Isabela in Kirkwall in the first place.

After a great song and dance in front of the idiot, in which Hawke got the chance to slap Isabela and the pirate accidentally broke their nose in retaliation, they uncovered documents that would incriminate everyone tied to Castillon’s slave trading network and ended last night by pushing his corpse into the harbor.

“Isabela might need to jump through a few more hoops to claim his ship, but Fenris and Aveline are over the moon with the number of slave runners they’re gonna pin down,” Varric concluded, relieved to see Merrill turned around and smiling at him at last.

“So, about our resident anti-slaver,” he couldn’t help but keep going, with all the subtlety of a charging bronto.

“I’m sorry I missed out, it sounds like you all had quite the adventure,” she interrupted, stepping away from her mirror in an attempt to shepherd him out the door. “How is Hawke’s nose, then?”

“Hawke’s under the impression that it gives them a ‘roguish air,’ but that’s probably because Isabela has no idea how to apologize.” Varric snorted, allowing her to redirect the conversation.

“I promise not to disabuse Hawke of the idea that everyone finds them charming,” Merrill replied sweetly.

Of course, he wasn’t going to let her go that easily.

“Come on, Daisy,” he planted his feet. “You’ve been holed up here for days. If you don’t get some sunshine, you’ll wilt.”

“I’m not a plant, Varric,” she snapped, when she couldn’t grab him by the shoulders and push him out. “I appreciate that you checked up on me, really. I’m _fine,_ and I’m busy. Please leave.”

“Are you even gonna _talk_ to Broody?” the dwarf threw his hands up, partly in surrender, and partly because she was trying to move him with force magic. He’d hang onto the walls if he had to.

“How do you even _remember_ that?” Merrill exclaimed, exasperated.

At least she stopped trying to kick him out. Varric turned to her with a wry grin. “I don’t maintain my family’s estate by forgetting every important conversation I’ve had.”

“It’s not…” she pursed her lips. “What’s there to say?”

The Dalish mage retreated to her kitchen and sat heavily in a chair.

“At first, I was offended, because if he had my name on him somewhere this _entire time,_ why didn’t he say anything?” she admitted.

To no one’s surprise, Varric pulled out a flask from his coat, found two clean cups, and poured a liberal amount of liquor for both of them.

“And then I thought, well, if it’s in elvhen, of _course_ he wouldn’t recognize a soulmark. He wouldn’t come to me for something that personal,” Merrill hunched over her drink. “But then I really started thinking about the whole thing and I…!”

She slammed the cup down. “It just doesn’t seem fair! How many people have a name written on them that they can’t read? How many people are stuck where they are and can only dream of getting out? If he never escaped…” Merrill drew in a shaky breath. “I’ve been so obsessed with recovering the history of my people, but it’s so easy to forget who we are, who we’ve left behind. Would Mythal really give her people false hope?” She gasped. “Oh, Creators. Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

“It’s okay to doubt, Daisy. Just a natural part of having faith,” Varric said gently.

They sat together in silence for a while. Merrill allowed him to top off her cup twice before she spoke again, vowels slurred.

“Don’t the dwarves worship their ancestors?”

“I’m sky-touched, Daisy. Nothing like the folks in Orzammar.” He chuckled. “No, actually… I just might be Andrastian.”

“Most people say they’re religious, or they aren’t, Varric. Not that they might be.” He’d coaxed a reluctant smile out of her.

“Well, it’s a great story.” Varric took a contemplative sip. “But I can’t say I agree with everything in the Chant of Light. You and I wouldn’t be welcome at most services, and I’m still not sure how I feel about casting an almighty deity as an absentee father figure.” He shrugged. “Still, it gave my mother some peace in her later years. I don’t have to agree with everything, it’s just part of who I am now.”

“I think I understand,” Merrill said. Then, “What is this, exactly?” She pointed to the flask.

“Antivan rum, according to Rivaini.” Another elegant shrug, and half-cocked smirk. “Tastes like shoe leather to me.”

“Mm…”

Varric lingered after they finished their drinks, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible busybody?” Merrill asked crossly, once she noticed.

“I think Broody deserves to know,” he said. Merrill laid her head on the kitchen table. “Maybe he got some key memories back and he’s been wondering all week what to do about the scribble on the left side of his ass.”

“Don’t be gross, Varric,” she groaned

“This has been bothering you too,” he continued, undaunted. “So you’ll have to forgive me if I just want to see my friends… work some things out.”

“I had much more fun when you did this to Hawke and Isabela,” she grumbled.

“Is this like that?” he asked the question carefully, so carefully that she almost missed his meaning.

Merrill sat up abruptly. “No!”

“Then explain it to me.”

Merrill was having a hard time appreciating Varric for not talking down to her, or assuming her feelings on the matter, when he was being so insistent.

“You heard him that day,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I feel unclean, magic taints everything, magic has _stained_ my _soul.”_

Her attempt to drop her voice to a gravelly baritone failed, of course, but it made Varric snort with laughter.

“It would be cruel,” said Merrill eventually, when the moment had passed. “I imagine trying to prove that my name is _actually_ my name, and the thought of him accusing me of lying or trying to manipulate him exhausts me. He’d see it as just another way magic has ruined his life, if he’d even listen to the truth.”

She glanced away from Varric’s understanding nod. “I have my own questions, of course. I never gave as much thought to language as I should, but I truly wonder how many slaves in the Imperium receive soulmarks… and are never able to act on them. Did Danarius say anything to him, if he saw it? My Keeper was disappointed that it looked like I wasn’t meant for another Dalish, but she’d never assume…” Merrill trailed off, uncomfortable.

“Then there’s the matter of age. I know Fenris is several years older than me, and it just feels _odd._ I have no idea what’s supposed to happen when your… other person takes… more time… to enter the world?” She buried her face in her hands. Somehow, it felt like if she came out and said _soulmate,_ it would all become more real.

“The Dalish celebrate these things, it’s true, but they don’t always have to end in… marriage,” Merrill forced out the world with poorly concealed panic. “Really, we celebrate forging a connection to someone else, a strong bond. Maybe, in the end, it’s just about learning with that person. Growing with them.”

Varric reached out to anchor her, clasping her hands to stop her anxiously drumming on the table’s surface. She took a steadying breath.

“There’s just one question I keep coming back to,” she concluded. “What does Mythal possibly hope to teach him that he hasn’t learned already… and what does she expect of me?”

Under Varric’s silent scrutiny, she gave into the urge to remove her gauntlet and bare the dark ink to the room. “Is there something I’m not seeing?” she wondered quietly.

L-E-T-O. The letters had not changed. But beneath the scar tissue she’d built around her palms and wrists, the strokes had shifted on their own accord, and his name was as clear on her skin as the day it first appeared.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Hawke!” Merrill stood up in a flurry of motion, rushing to move a few piles of books to the side and shoving the gauntlet back on her arm, noticeably sluggish from the rum.

Varric gave them a carefree wave. “Good to see you, Hawke,” he drawled. “Nah, I was just hoping to convince Daisy to join us for Wicked Grace tonight.”

“That’s tonight?” she blurted, damning them both. She cursed under her breath as the two of them exchanged grins.

“Actually, we might need to put that on hold.” Hawke shifted on their feet, and their smile fell into a flat line. “Anders asked me for a favor, and I… I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but.”

If Merrill had to pick one word to describe the Champion of Kirkwall, she would use something like _confident_ or, yes, _charming._ Seeing them nervous was unnerving in itself.

“He’s looking into ways to separate from Justice.” Merrill raised a brow, caught Varric doing the same. “I know. I know! He said he’s spent the past three years researching a _potion_ to do it. Went out of his way to say it’s not blood magic. But it’s like he forgot I grew up in a household of mages. Dad told Bethany every other day that if she decided to go abomination, there was no turning back!” Hawke flung out their hands in dramatic gestures, pulled at their hair.

“Even Tevinter mages fear the dangers of possession. Why else would they keep their Circles, if an apprentice could wake up one day chained to a desire demon and say, ‘whoops, silly me! I forgot to keep my fantasies to myself in the Fade. All we need is a potion though, and boom! Just in time to sacrifice the slaves at noon.’ Or whatever it is they do there.”

“You’re worried,” Merrill observed quietly.

Hawke sat down. “Yeah,” they said after a beat. “Yeah, I am.”

“I may not be a master herbalist, but I can certainly look into this potion for you,” Merrill reached out and touched Hawke’s shoulder with her freshly-covered palm.

“He said we can gather ingredients… in the city… and out by the Bone Pit. Can I count you in?”

None of them missed the way Merrill glanced at her mirror, nor the pause before she said, “Of course, Hawke.”

“Varric?” The Champion snatched at his flask and sighed to discover it empty.

Varric stood and gave them a speculative glance. “Actually, I have to wrap up some things with Bartrand’s property. Have you considered bringing this to Fenris? I know he’ll jump at any chance to drag Anders through the mud, but the guy knows his homeland. He might just give you the information you need to get your boyfriend to spill the truth.”

“Boyfriend sounds so juvenile,” Hawke replied petulantly. “But you _do_ have a point. You, me, Anders and Fenris, tomorrow morning at the Hanged Man?”

Merrill glared at Varric as he helped the Champion stand. All she could do was nod. “At least this is going to be interesting,” Hawke mused. “Oh, and bring shoes with soles,” they added, much to her chagrin. “Or you can borrow some of Bethany’s.”

 

\--

 

When she realized she'd agreed to trudge through the Darktown sewers the following day, Merrill’s mood soured. She wondered if her face looked anything like Fenris’s outright look of disgust.

They had little time to chat, since Anders took every attempt at lighthearted banter between her and Hawke as a personal offense. Or maybe it was Justice who was on edge.

 _Even if we could separate them, it’s not really a question of survival anymore._ Merrill stared at the crow’s feet gathering around Hawke’s eyes, their laugh lines pulled into a tense scowl. _Could Anders live a normal life? Would Justice agree to return to the Fade? Or have they both been so changed by the experience… that there’d be nothing left if we tried?_

Fenris seemed fine with hacking through the groups of bandits lurking around the tunnels—which, ugh, was another thing Merrill couldn’t understand about humans. If all these people were on the run from the law, why didn’t they run _away_ from the city, instead of under it? No one belonged down here.

“Witch!” Merrill glanced back in time to watch Fenris knock back a bandit attempting a backstab. He had enough time to glower at her before he rushed off to aid Hawke.

Merrill didn’t know what Varric hoped to accomplish by bringing them together for this mission. Hawke and Anders would have benefitted from having the dwarf around to break the tension, or Isabela, who had no patience for the sullen and sulking. She wondered if Hawke had mentioned this to Isabela at all, since she was supposed to be sharing a bed with both of them.

Merrill decided Varric deserved a bit of revenge for putting her in this position. She was spending too much time spent speculating about her teammates and almost getting stabbed, and not enough on finishing the eluvian.

Once they emerged from a tunnel near Anders’ clinic with enough sela petrae (Merrill shuddered to think of using the stuff in drinkable potions), Hawke laid a hand on their lover’s shoulder and offered a strained grin.

“I think we've had enough for the day, yeah?”

Everyone was grimy and getting cranky, and Hawke looked like they were remembering why they seldom brought Fenris and Anders together, as their banter had been getting increasingly hostile.

“We'll head to the Bone Pit first thing tomorrow morning. Hubert wanted me to check on the workers, too.”

The rogue raised a brow as Anders opened his mouth—to argue, most likely—but he seemed to think better of it and said instead, “Sounds good. I'll see you later tonight, love.”

“Of course,” Hawke replied. They looked a bit lost.

Once they deposited the mage in his clinic and emerged from Darktown, Hawke asked Fenris, “What is sela petrae, actually?”

“It's not made from shit and piss, I'll tell you that much,” Fenris snapped, stomping awkwardly around in his borrowed boots. Merrill almost wanted to laugh, but he hadn't tripped and fallen on his hands and knees more than twice.

According to Fenris’ newfound memories and a number of textbooks left in the mansion, whatever they just found was closer to a compound commonly used as a food preservative. “Or in fireworks. Or cannons,” he added.

“How handy!” said Hawke brightly. But they were frowning now.

“The drakestone is an odd touch, I must admit…”

Merrill slowed behind them as they started to head towards Hightown. None of this was actually in her realm of expertise, and she figured the only thing she had to look forward to was the mirror, sitting dormant at home. She ought to go back. “Poor Anders,” she sighed instead.

Hawke and Fenris turned to face her.

“You pity him?” The Tevinter warrior shot her an incredulous look. “He's dangerous to himself and everyone around him.”

“I think he's broken the thing he wanted to save,” she said, thinking of the way he'd agonized over nearly killing Ella, that poor Circle mage. How he was still upset about it years later. How the outbursts had been getting worse.

“You pity him because he's you,” Fenris scoffed.

“Fenris,” Hawke intoned, crossing their arms.

Merrill didn’t need them to fight her battles, not back then and certainly not now. This was an argument they’d had in many iterations over the past seven years.

“Breaking the things you love most isn't restricted to mages, Fenris,” she said.

Hawke looked like they were about to throw up their hands and walk off. They were probably sensing another argument brewing, the way she was.

Of course, Fenris surprised them both when he _conceded. “_ Sadly true.”

“By the Maker, you've finally agreed on something,” Hawke exclaimed.

“I'll be sure to give Anders a big hug when we see him tomorrow, then the world will definitely end,” Fenris grumbled. Merrill averted her eyes and cursed the flush spreading from her neck; in doing so, she missed the disgruntled glare he shot at Hawke.

 

\--

 

A few nights later, Isabela tried dropping by the Amell estate, only to have Bodhan tell her the master was out with their mage, the one with the feathers, yes.

“Looked like they were in the middle of a right strop, they were.” If Bodhan were in the habit of wringing his hands, he’d pull off the role of a worried spouse beautifully. So, naturally, he was occupied with sorting the Champion’s massive piles of fan mail. “I’d come back tomorrow if I were you, mum.”

Thus, Isabela returned to wandering the streets of Hightown, seeking entertainment that would refrain from calling her any form of ‘madam.’ Unless she felt like it.

When she spotted flickering candlelight in the windows of a certain mansion, she smiled to herself.

Quite some time had passed since Isabela last tested the defenses around Fenris’ mansion. Of course, he and Varric forged paperwork even before then, and now that they’d killed everyone tracking him down, Fenris was free to live where and how he liked. But knowing the elf as she did, he’d probably never dismantle the claw traps and tripwires. He’d certainly put up a resistance to cleaning out the mummified corpses, back in the day.

All these years later and Fenris still neglected to make the windows Isabela-proof. This time she picked an opening on the opposite side of the building from where Fenris preferred to sleep, murmuring the words of an old sea shanty under her breath. “A cheerful salt, that's what I be… A'shore for the night and seeking company…”

When she came upon him at last, she couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose.

“A perfectly good night like this, and you’re _reading?”_

Fenris shot her an unimpressed look.

“Some people are content with a book and a good bottle of wine for company,” he remarked, gesturing to the mostly empty glass to his right.

Isabela draped herself over a chair across from him and held a hand out for his choice in literature. Fenris sighed but obliged her while he finished off the rest of his drink.

“One of Brother Genitivi’s travelogues, hm?” Isabela was mindful of keeping his place while she flipped through the pages. “My, we’ve certainly graduated from Leandra’s old schoolbooks and proofreading my friend fiction.”

The expression on his face was priceless; Isabela had intruded on his and Hawke’s lessons a few times, to absolutely disastrous results.

“Your _friend fiction_ was beyond even Varric’s editor.” The warrior raised a brow at her. “Not that I don’t appreciate your company, Isabela, but why aren’t you with…?”

“Lover’s spat, I think,” she interrupted him with cheer. “I imagine it has something to do with your outing at the start of the week.”

Fenris leaned back in his chair with a disgruntled huff and said, “I just hope Hawke can keep the abomination from doing anything too foolish.”

Isabela went with what she did best: she let his scorn rush past like a wave breaking upon the shore, came up with a playful smile, and stood up to prowl the room, shake off his focus.

“Let’s speak of more pleasant things, shall we?" she suggested, running a finger across one dusty bookshelf. "You know, you could go anywhere you like.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Speaking of Anders always seemed to put the warrior in a mood—and not the kind Isabela enjoyed when her little arrangement with the Champion and their lover had its good days—so the pirate queen pressed her back to the shelf and gave him a long look.

“You could go on your own travels,” she waved the book at him. “Start a restaurant. Your own winery, perhaps? Oh!” She sauntered up to him with a grin. “You could become a raider. You could join my crew.”

“The crew of your nonexistent ship?”

Fenris watched through lidded eyes as she knelt right by his chair. Isabela always loved the way he measured his words, the way alcohol softened his persistent edges. And the way he was looking at her now… well, he was fully aware how much she loved his eyes.

“Well, with that attitude, you aren’t going anywhere,” she replied, honey-sweet, sliding the book back into his lap. Oh, how quickly she could change the atmosphere of a room. He caught her wrist in mid-motion.

“I’m a free man, Isabela,” he murmured. “I can go anywhere I like.”


	12. Chapter 12

Fenris expected to wake alone the next morning; he should have known Isabela's schemes would run deeper than that.

So, when he came face-to-face with a disheveled, possibly manic Hawke, he laid back in bed with a look of polite interest.

"Hawke. Care to join me?"

"What? No. Maybe. Later." Hawke faltered, but caught on quick enough to attempt a suave grin. It came out more like a grimace. "Have you seen Isabela?"

Fenris considered his answer carefully.

On one hand, Isabela vehemently denied belonging to anyone. She despised the thought of being a kept woman, and anyone she allowed to get close knew that hatred stemmed from a very personal place.

On the other, the pirate wore her heart on her sleeve. Her arrangement with the Champion seemed, on the surface, one of pure convenience, or even one among many. But only a fool would miss the way they stared at one another, as if constantly surprised to find the other at their side. And these days, she was the only one who seemed able to draw Anders out of his sullen moods, coming up with inventive medical excuses to see him and discussing them in embarrassingly loud and explicit detail during their game nights at the Hanged Man. When Isabela loved someone, she threw herself into it fully, and those she loved were better for it.

Fenris shuddered, unable to shake the image of Anders hovering over Hawke's shoulder, wearing a mirrored look of concern.

"She was here last night," he admitted, unable to stop Hawke's journey from hope into thinly-veiled despair.

 _Kaffas,_ she _had_ put Fenris in a very unpleasant position, hadn't she?

Last night, they'd come together as only they could. For all she and Hawke flirted with him, Isabela seemed like the only person in Thedas able to intuit where she could touch, given the way she'd pushed and pulled at his boundaries over the years.

Fenris would never admit it, but in a different world, he imagined pursuing her. But she and Hawke (and Anders) were a package deal, and they were going to be the death of him.

He wanted to impress upon Hawke that while last night had been welcome, he had no intentions of taking it further. In fact, as he was starting to fully wake up, Fenris got the distinct feeling that Isabela had thrown him into the arena to do couples therapy for her.

He heaved a great sigh.

"She said you and the mage were fighting last night, and seemed very set on acting like it was not her problem," he said, sitting up and tugging on clothes within reach. Hawke seemed unfazed by his obvious nudity. They _did,_ however, look uncomfortable at the prospect of discussing their messy personal life.

Well, Isabela had him thoroughly submerged, so through the waters Fenris would tread.

"It's clear you all… care for each other. So why is Isabela acting as though she's merely the spare sheath to your dagger?"

Perhaps he shouldn't have gone with that particular illustration - Hawke looked like they'd been slapped.

But that was the crux of Isabela's insecurities, wasn't it?

"She thinks she's - what - an accessory?" Hawke jumped up and began to pace the room, and Fenris was struck by the way Isabela and the Champion filled the room with their presence, in entirely different ways.

"She thinks your 'arrangement' isn't permanent."

If either of them were surprised to find Fenris the new resident Isabela expert, well, he had plenty of experience in the reflexive self-defense of pushing people away.

 _"Nothing_ in life is," Hawke said. "That's so - I thought we _talked_ about this."

Fenris watched as they made a few laps around the room, then stomped over to the weak sunlight filtering through his open window. _Ah, that's how they got in,_ Fenris realized wryly.

"None of us have soul marks." Hawke wasn't looking at him as they made that startling non-sequitur, but Feris felt all the blood drain from his face nonetheless.

"Active soul marks, I mean," they continued, oblivious. "I saw mother's after our father died. They wash out. Like your body knows they're no longer with you. And some days… she'd would sit in our kitchen, and I'd think the sun was trying to take that woman. She went somewhere else, thinking of him. Like she didn't feel at home anymore. Isabela looks that way too, sometimes.

"But then you have someone like me," they made a haphazard, sweeping gesture. "Someone who's apparently not assigned to anyone. They're calling me Champion of a city I wasn't even born in, these days - I feel like I'm being pulled in a thousand directions at once. But _those two_ \- I can't explain it, but when I'm with them... All of you are family, but they're…"

When a minute passed and Hawke seemed to give up on any attempts to finish their sentence, Fenris felt brave enough to join them. Together, they peered into a few courtyards of the neighboring Hightown mansions. In watching the familiar bustle of the city below, Fenris found what he needed to say.

"Isabela told me why it's taking her so long to seize the ship from that Antivan bastard."

"She's going through with it after all? She chewed me out for killing the guy, hasn't said anything since."

That was the beauty of their unusual friendship - they could jump conversational lines and still land on the same page.

"It seems that transferring ownership wasn't the most difficult part of her quest. She's trying to get the name and port of registry changed."  
  
Hawke raised a brow. "I get the name change, she's been dead-set on the Siren's Call II since the start. But…?"

"She doesn't want the ship to have anything to do with Antiva. So she's trying to register it in Kirkwall. Get the name of the city carved into the hull, and everything that comes with it."

 _I'm a moron,_ she'd said, as they lounged together just hours ago, tentatively touching, between rounds. _A foolish, optimistic moron._

"She wants to stay, Hawke," said Fenris. "Tell her you and Anders are waiting for her to come back to home port. And please let me go back to bed."

 

\--

 

Isabela was waiting for them back at the Amell mansion after all. It was empty, unusually so. As soon as Hawke saw her, they swept her into their arms and launched into an urgent, incoherent babble before Isabela could so much as get their name out.

"Hawke… Hawke! Slow down, sweetie. I was going to say I think we should talk… but it looks like you might die if you don't go first."

"We should definitely talk," Hawke said, tightening their grip around Isabela's waist. They looked hopeful, though, and Isabela was smiling, however sheepishly.

"But first, I'm going to need you to tell me if I'm crazy, I saw _the craziest thing…"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a year since my last update, and I'm a fool, but I still want to finish this story and I have ideas about tying into Inquisition and beyond. Thank you for leaving kudos and comments in the interim. Thanks especially to heartsyhawk, whose kindness I'm not sure I deserve! 
> 
> I hope those of you who remember this story can jump back on board as I run through the end of the second game and make the interpersonal lives of Hawke & crew even messier - new readers, welcome.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the quest On the Loose pretty closely, with some (hopefully fitting) exceptions.

Isabela had her chin propped in both hands, a Cheshire smile spreading on her lips that only widened when she caught the attention of her current prey.

"Say, Fenris, about the other night," she drawled, right over Varric's animated retelling of the latest battle he'd waged with his publisher, something about a vital semicolon. "I can't stop thinking about it."

They were waiting for Emile de Launcet to conclude his business at the Hanged Man. Isabela seemed especially amused by her opening line. Hawke, for some reason, started to grin as though they were in on the joke, even if they'd just blatantly offered their lover up for the job of deflowering the fifth de Launcet son and most certainly were not involved in the events she was referring to.

"Isabela…" he grumbled over his beer in warning.

Varric, like a shark who just picked up the scent of blood in the water, chuckled and said, "Well, now. There's a story there, Rivaini, and I'd say we've got at least ten minutes before the de Launcet kid is finished."

"I'll do you in a minute, Varric, darling." Isabela looked practically predatory. Hawke was guffawing. Varric wasn't going to bail him out, the beardless bastard.

"Come on, sweet thing. You and I had fun, didn't we? I saw things I thought I'd never get to see."

Fenris told himself the room was warm; that was the only reason why he felt a cold sweat start at the back of his neck.

"I assume what I did the morning after went well, since you officially stopped renting here," he replied, stone-faced.

"How did you…? Oh, boo, you're no fun." Isabela pouted, but pressed on. "You're not even a little interested? You did _so_ well."

"This is pointless. Let it go, Isabela."

"I will not!" she declared. "This is what I do best." Her frank delivery of the line, _I do just fine whoring myself out without your help, thanks,_ about five minutes earlier was proof enough she wouldn't let this go easily.

"Do you not have an ounce of decorum in you?" The moment he snapped back, Fenris regretted it.

"That's what I'm trying to get from _you,_ sweetheart," she purred. Hawke slapped the table, thoroughly delighted, hard enough to rattle their drinks.

 

\--

 

Varric agreed to escort Emile back to the Gallows - the blissed out look on the kid's face was enough to tell them he'd need a little extra help - and they parted with laughter. Tracking down Meredith's second target to the Alienage, however, made the light atmosphere of the tavern seem like a distant memory.

Merrill lit a lamp in her kitchen window. It did little to soften the look on Hawke's face as they peered out into the main square, waiting for Huon to appear.

"I don't understand," Hawke said. "How can you be married to someone you haven't seen in over ten years?"  
  
"They were soulmates." Merrill looked up from the heavy tome she had out when they first arrived at her home. Everyone snapped to attention - funny, how people still seemed shocked by those words.

"Nyssa told me they grew up together, and married when they both came of age," she explained. "Only then did she find out Huon was a mage. He'd been very careful about hiding his talents from the templars. Not even the village elders knew. One day, he told her he wanted to find the Dalish, to hone his magical talents… and despite her protests, he disappeared without her."

"That's awful." Isabela looked up from fiddling with a dagger tucked in one boot.

"This was before my clan came to Sundermount. I wonder if he made it to the clans near Hasmal, or even Wycome..."

"If he had been successful, I don't suppose the Knight-Commander would have us looking for him now."

Fenris, too, had been looking over his broadsword, until he turned the full force of his attention on Merrill. And though he hadn't meant to sound confrontational, the Dalish mage wilted a bit at his words.

"I suppose you're right," she said.

"I can't believe Meredith strong-armed me into this," Hawke complained, in a well-timed move to steer the conversation into safer waters.

Since Fenris and Isabela had been with them since they first accepted the mission in the Gallows, they refrained from commenting. Hawke's open sympathy for First Enchanter Orsino (and their continued involvement with the mage underground) only fueled the city's unease. All Meredith had to do was suggest a necromancer or two still lurked in the tunnels of Dark Town, a shame how the Champion seemed unwilling to protect the people of Kirkwall, and she had the public's favor firmly in her grasp.

Merrill, at least, was willing to try to console Hawke. She shelved her book and joined them at the window, speaking in hushed tones.

"So…" Isabela wasted no time sliding over to her favorite Tevinter warrior.

"If you're trying to tell me three is company, but four is better…"

"Now, really. Is it because you don't want to share us with a mage?"

"Not your mage," Fenris replied, thrown off by the ludicrousness of the situation.

"You'd really be alright with a mage if they weren't our dear, beloved Anders?" Hawke cut in with a laugh.

Fenris shot the Champion an incredulous look. To Isabela, he said, "That was not a _yes._ I'm… flattered… by your persistence, but I cannot say I want any part in what's currently occupying your time -"

"Someone's here," Merrill interrupted, putting an effective end to the conversation.

 

\--

 

The base of the vhenadahl was scorched. Huon had scratched ink into his own face, a dark mockery of vallaslin. He'd stabbed Nyssa the moment he saw them coming. Merrill couldn't save her.

She knelt by Nyssa's body, distraught.

"She deserves a proper Dalish send-off," she said to Hawke, when the Champion wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"I don't… I think you need to go on without me, Hawke." Other elves were peering from their doors and windows, spooked by the commotion.

Hawke looked up at Fenris greeting someone; the Hahren of the alienage had arrived. They pulled Merrill into a hug and murmured, "I'll come back, okay? I'm sorry it came to this." They went to the elder, their best Champion look adorning their face.

Isabela joined her.

"When you have someone's name on your body, you want to believe they're good for you. They're under your skin from the start," said the pirate. She did the gruesome job of closing Nyssa's eyes.

"Their destinies were intertwined. Even if it's all bound to end in tragedy… Maybe that's all there is to it," Merrill replied, bleak. Isabela pressed a kiss to her temple and sighed.

 

\--

 

By the time they reached Darktown, the party was considerably more on edge. Despite its ideal configuration - Hawke grabbed Anders from his clinic easily enough - Isabela was reluctant to break in with more witty repartee.

This mission only reinforced Fenris' long-held distrust of mages, and Anders was already muttering about _templars forcing the mages' hands._ Of the three Meredith wanted them to track down, Evelina, formerly of the Fereldan Circle, was the most well-trained. They were in for a nasty fight.

 

\--

 

She almost hated being right.

Isabela cursed herself for being so focused on engaging Evelina-the-abomination that she'd forgotten to watch her six. Fenris paid the price for her - he was on the ground, gasping, from a wound right below his breastplate.

"Clinic?" she and Hawke yelped as one.

"We do not have time," replied Justice. "Remove his armor. We will do it here."

Fenris was lucid, but his breath rattled, wet. When they managed to unbuckle everything, his tunic was bloodstained.

"Meddlesome… woman," he mumbled.

Isabela leaned over Fenris. Her hair spilled over her shoulder, shading him from the lyrium blue glow of Anders' healing magic.

"It's what I do best," she agreed apologetically.

She glanced back when the blue at the corners of her vision faded. Hawke and Anders were sharing A Look.

As far as plans went, this one wasn't her best - she wasn't even sure of her endgame.

She brushed her hair back. Hawke looked between her neck and Fenris' hip with quiet sympathy; Anders, with dawning awe. Between the three of them, the moment felt strange - significant, but in a way that had nothing to go with them.

"Are you finished, mage?" Fenris asked, already struggling to sit up.

When he saw the looks on their faces, however, he laid back down and cursed in Tevene.

\--

 

"Merrill?"

Hawke entered the former First's home, unable to disguise their unease. Few people roamed the streets this late. Merrill still had a light in her window, though, and Hawke had promised to come back.

"Lethallin."

They found her sprawled across her kitchen floor with a med kit, applying pressure to the inside of her elbow. The last vestiges of her blood magic fell from the mirror, but it lay dormant as ever. Out of her armor, gauntlets off, hair wild, she looked like something Malcolm Hawke would use to terrify his children into behaving.

"I need to ask you for a favor," she said.


End file.
